


Beasts in the Flowerfield

by Tictacat



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Violence, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Or achilles, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Achilles, Protective Patroclus, Self-Doubt, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator???, We do not stan patroclus dying, Werewolf AU, achilles just wants the best for Patroclus, dont we all, kind of, liberal interpretation of Greek mythology, peleus is doing his best, wolf!patroclus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28652088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tictacat/pseuds/Tictacat
Summary: Patroclus arrives on the salt-stained coasts of Phthia covered with the blood of a child. Chained, broken and muzzled in the belly of the palace, trapped for his crimes, he should count himself lucky the gods have let him live this long.But when a boy enters his life with the sun woven through his hair and eyes that flicker with the green of spring leaves, he finds himself drawn, moth-like, towards the light.In a world where creatures like Patroclus are considered cursed, and princes like Achilles are slowly being marched towards glorious war, can they find a way to live together?———————Or, Patroclus is cursed with the ability to turn into a wolf, yet despite all odds, ends up as Achilles’ closest companion. The plot loosely follows canon, but only in the broadest sense.
Relationships: Achilles & Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 72
Kudos: 112





	1. The City by the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> I’m writing a similar idea, the incredibly original idea of wolves, for a different fandom atm, and I thought why not combine it with TSOA? 
> 
> Notes: Lykos literally translates into wolf in Ancient Greece. I know, I’m extremely imaginative. I did have a few more creative name ideas, but most of them involved butchering the Greek language, so I decided I would keep things simple.
> 
> Warnings: Fairly graphic depictions of violence from the beginning, as well as the death of a child.

When the common man thought of the kingdom of Opus, two thoughts may pass through his mind. Though the nature of these thoughts were dependent on his social standing, his interests, and where travel-worn feet on wandering paths had led him, his opinion was either good or bad.

In his mind, Opus was either blessed by the gods, or cursed.

Patroclus felt the splintering crack of bone under his teeth as the boy, merely a child, gasped out his last breaths in shuddering screams. The demon inside Patroclus’ mind (no, not a demon, a part of you) whispered in hushed murmurs, _harder, harder, snap his neck in two._

The boy whined for help, word corrupted beyond recognition through gargling blood.

And because Patroclus was weak, because he shared his soul with a monster, he shoved the boy’s body against the ground, and placed one massive paw on his chest. Wrinkling his nose in a deep throated growl, he closed his jaw with a crunch.

The boy twitched, black blood pulsing weakly from his neck. His eyes flickered once, lost in the clean blue sky above them. And then, he lay still.

Dead.

Patroclus backed away from him. A monster no longer, but a thin, gangly boy with bloody dice gripped in his long-limbed hands. He stared at them for a second, watching how the fingers trembled, as far beyond his control as everything his body did. Then he reached up to touch his face, slick with the metallic oiliness of blood. The dice dropped from his hands and he fled.

If the common man was not any kind of fool he would know the kingdom of Opus wasn’t just cursed, it was condemned for ever.

* * *

Perhaps because Achilles had grown tall and dark racing along the beaches of Phthia, his beautiful kingdom by the sea, his love of the sea gulls was partly because they reminded him so dearly of home. Crouched over his lyre in one of the tallest rooms of his father’s palace, Achilles could look out over the land, their land, and imagine himself among the fine-boned birds that skimmed the great mirror of the sea, ducking and weaving between the rigging of the great merchant boats travelling back from distant lands and loaded under bolts of cloth, livestock and stories. Stories of kingdoms so far-off and shrouded in mists, Achilles wondered if even the gods knew of them. Above the strum of his teacher’s lyre he listened out for the plaintive cries of the gulls and paused at the brush of wind as one landed on the windowsill of the music room, its great shadow blocking the light which had been blinding Achilles’ eyes for the last half hour. It peered in, as if it too wanted to learn the lyre.

Achilles laughed as his old teacher waved bony hands, stretched white with age, at the bird, who only reshuffled it wings and swelled its throat with a series of child-like cries.

Gently, Achilles placed down his lyre, letting his fingers unwind from their familiar position on the polished wood.

“Let me.”

The bird was gone before Achilles was even half way across the room, unfolding narrow wings and lazily peeling itself away from the sill. Achilles finished his journey anyway, setting his forearms on the ledge to let the cold stone seep its way under his skin. His eyes followed the path of the gull, watching the arrow of its wings against the sky. The wind fingered its way through his hair and he let his lids fall shut, salt air grating against his throat.

And then a new cry rose above the calls of the gulls. The shout of a human, raised in excitement.

Achilles looked down.

A new ship had pulled up at the harbour. The broad planks which made up its hull were of a darker wood than the trees which grew around Phthia. Next to the proud ships of his own land, the boat appeared like a roughly carved shadow, peeling lichen already clinging in a dark line across its middle as if a sea god had plucked the ship from its harbour and dipped it in a dark, rich oil.

The commotion was coming from the boarding platform alongside the boat, but a group of people had gathered so densely Achilles couldn’t see what, or who they were looking at. A few broad armed men shouldered through them carrying chests of goods. Spoils from a far off war? Unlikely. Phthia was not involved in any foreign conflicts.

As the men marched by, little more than the size of Achilles’ thumb at this distance, a flash of gold in the mid-afternoon sun caught his attention. A statue? No, a carved lyre, done finely enough the one behind him seemed cheap in comparison. Perhaps he could ask his father-

“My prince, Achilles.” His teacher spoke behind him, his words whistling between broken teeth like the breeze through an olive grove, “let us continue, now the bird is gone.”

The crowd below was still too thick to see what the excitement was about. No matter. Achilles could ask his father later. He danced from the window, and took up his lyre, the worn wood taking back the chill that had settled on his fingers.

He had a lot to ask his father about.

* * *

  
  


“Father says you’re a Lykos.”

Patroclus started. He hadn’t even heard the door to his room open. Now a dim, dusty light drove its way between the curls of hair falling across his eyes. He tried to shift his head to look at the intruder but the thick muzzle across his face kept him staring downwards at the packed earth ground.

Room. It was little more than a cell.

His nose told him the speaker was another boy. A boy who had recently been in the sea. Sweat, scented oils and salt. Gods, he was sick of the smell of salt. The way it hit the back of his throat with a sharpness that had had him gagging as the Phthian sailors had dragged him from below deck. They had added more chains to the handcuffs and collar already tight around his arms and neck and tossed him onto the wooden slats of the harbour platform. Really, they need not have bothered. The constant swaying of the boat had made his mind as groggy as his stomach.

And now he was here, chained to the earth he had spent weeks praying for in that dingy cell in the belly of the ship. And a boy had come to visit him. A boy who smelt of pomegranates and figs and the cold salt of the sea.

He didn’t respond.

“Do you have a name? Father won’t tell me.”

Perhaps it was fitting the father of such a boy would want him to know Patroclus as a threat, a Lykos, and that only. A nameless monster.

Patroclus blinked, but didn’t stir. The chains made it hard enough to move anyway.

After a few minutes of repeated questions, the boy let out a sigh and left. Patroclus wondered if he would have said something if it weren’t for the muzzle. Probably not. Whoever this child was (though he must have been around the same age as Patroclus), it was best for both of them if they stayed in their separate worlds. His father had emphasised, creatures like Patroclus had no business to even breath the same air as humans. King Peleus was kind for even offering to shelter him. Even if that shelter was a prison cell.

No, it was better if he stayed away.

Unfortunately the boy was persistent.

The next day he was back. With something that smelt hot, with the rich depth of cooked meat. He didn’t bother greeting Patroclus this time, but came forward and placed the food just in Patroclus’ range of sight. Patroclus’s head jerked towards it involuntarily, stomach betraying him with a loud growl. The guards took off the biggest chains twice a day to allow Patroclus to relieve himself and eat something small. His jaws had begun to ache from chewing dried bread.

But then Patroclus felt the warm press of long fingers tugging at the muzzle around his head and he let out a small grunt in warning. The boy knew he was a Lykos, he must know how dangerous he was.

Or maybe he didn’t. Patroclus shrank away from the hands as soon as the muzzle came loose. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground. The demon inside him was unpredictable. Even now, he could feel it stirring, pacing around the edges of his mind.

He heard shuffling as the boy backed away from him, leaving enough space for him to take the food without coming too close. Somehow, Patroclus knew he wasn’t doing it because he was scared. No, if he was scared he wouldn’t have come in the first place. He was doing it out of consideration. Patroclus held that thought and let it linger in his mind as he cautiously reached out for the food.

“I don’t know why you’re chained up like this, even if you are a Lykos.” Perhaps the boy saw Patroclus flinch at his words, because he didn’t press any further. Perhaps he could guess. That Patroclus had crushed a child between his jaws as if the fine bones of his neck had been seashells.

But if he had, then why did he lean closer, trying to peer at Patroclus’ face. Patroclus took a bite from the meat. Lamb, thick, and seasoned with something earthy. He wiped his mouth with a chained wrist, and let his gaze meet the other boy’s.

He was the same age as him, as Patroclus has guessed. But that was where the similarities ended. Whilst Patroclus’s hair was the thick dark curls of a ram, the other boy’s hair shone gold, even in the dim light of the cell. Whilst Patroclus’ eyes could have been the dark pools of a storm swollen lake, The other boy looked at him with eyes that held the leaves of a spring day, flecked with light from a morning sky.

“Achilles.” The name escaped his mouth before he had the chance to trap it behind his tongue.

But Achilles smiled.

“And you are Patroclus, son of Menoetius, and the prince of Opus.”

Patroclus looked away. Something in those bright eyes burnt deep into his soul, seeking for something he knew was not there. Though, what Achilles saw in him, what the famous prince of Phthia saw in his broken, chained and muzzled body, he had no idea.

Achilles didn’t say anything as he watched Patroclus finish off the meat. When he was done, he took the plate, glanced at the chains still holding him against the wall, and left.

  
  


The muzzle never went back on.

And Achilles kept coming back.

Most of the time, he would sit a few metres away and talk whilst Patroclus ate. He seemed to talk about anything that came to mind. His father was a favourite topic. Patroclus listened and wondered what it was like to grow up loving the man who brought you into this world. And to know you were loved just as much in return. He talked about playing in the olive groves in the gardens, the other boys who he had grown up alongside.

“Though they don’t train with me.” He said, after a moment’s pause, and Patroclus wondered why not. What made Achilles different? Of course, even in Opus he had heard of Achilles. Mostly stories about his golden hair and swift feet. And the rumours his father had lain with the sea nymph, Thetis, to produce an heir. Patroclus knew what it was to be touched by the gods. But out of the two of them, Achilles seemed to have got the better deal.

Patroclus, chained beneath the earth, and sharing his soul with a monster, whilst Achilles carried rays of the sun woven through his hair.

Patroclus would listen to Achilles in silence, watching him through the curtain of his curls, which had quickly grown matted and shaggy in captivity. The longer he stayed here, and the more time he spent with Achilles, the more unworthy he felt.

One day, when Patroclus had finished his food, Achilles didn’t leave. He moved, as if to get the plate, but then stopped and met Patroclus’ gaze.

“How long are you going to stay here?” It was barely noticeable, but Patroclus caught the plaintive note of a child in his question. A child who was also a god. It almost seemed like an oxymoron.

Patroclus moved his gaze beyond Achilles to look at the small grating of light above them. Wherever this cell was, it must be far away from the rest of palace life. When Achilles left, he would be alone with only the distant calls of gulls to guide him through the evening.

“A long time.” His voice grated in his mouth, thick with disuse, and he held back a cough. His eyes watered at the bitter spike it sent through his throat, and he looked at his hands. How the skin around his wrists was worn red and scaly with the iron chains. He felt how his muscles ached, his body stank.

He was little more than an animal already, and it seemed his punishment was to drive him even lower than the cattle he sometimes heard lowing on the wind.

“This collar,” Achilles reached a questioning hand towards his neck, backing off when Patroclus flinched, “it cuts you off from the wolf, doesn’t it? Is it terrible?”

Patroclus didn’t remember screaming when it had been put on. He didn’t remember much from that day, after he killed the boy. His father had sneered at him afterwards, when he had woken, his mouth cracked with blood from begging, and told him how he had shrieked like a woman. The collar didn’t severe the connection, but it prevented him from shifting out of his human form. It weakened his senses. When he had woken with it wound tight against his throat, for a moment it had seemed like half his soul had been cut away, and a shroud of grey mist had curled its way through every crevice of his body.

What it didn’t cut off were the demon voices that lurked like brambles in his mind. The voices which had whispered to him that a boy deserved to die over a game of dice.

“It is.” Patroclus said.

Achilles nodded and left. Patroclus watched his shadow falter, bold against the door, saw his narrow hand tighten on the frame. And then he was gone, the door closing with the barest of whispers and Patroclus curled in on himself, letting the first tears since he left home soak in hot paths down his face.

  
  


“Achilles, you understand why he is here?” Peleus watched his son wearily, dragging worn hands through his hair, “That boy is a murderer. The only reason his own life has not been given to the gods is because he was blessed by Apollo. If he is lucky, Patroclus will be drafted into the army, and end his life valiantly on the plains of war. Even then, Elysium will forever be closed to him.”

Achilles planted his feet firmly against the ground of his father’s chambers and held his arms open by his sides. Folding them, or hiding them behind his back would make him appear weaker. Lowering his head, as was expected before a king, would diminish his request in his father’s eyes. He was the son of a goddess. He bowed to nobody, and no one denied him.

“He belongs to me, father. Let me take responsibility for Patroclus. Did not the kings of old take Lykos to be their companions and accompany them into battle? Are not Lykos given to Opus by the god, Apollo, the Lord of Wolves, to-”

The king waved his hand, “Opus is cursed. Apollo’s ‘gift’ as you like to call it, was a punishment for the greed of the men who originally settled that land. You must know the stories, boy. They hunted down the wolf packs who lived there, rather than face the threat of losing cattle to them. The fact the son of Menoetius is a Lykos only cements what we already knew, that Menoetius is a greedy man, who cares nothing for his people, and even less for the land his kingdom is built on!”

Achilles clenched his fists, and the guards behind him stood back as for the briefest of seconds the very air around the prince of Phthia crackled as if charged by a thousand suns.

“Patroclus is mine,” he said again, and this time his words came out deeper. No longer the voice of a child.

The voice of a god, the guards would whisper to their wives later on.

“Let me prove him to you, father.”

He turned, and Peleus watched him leave, eyes helpless. What was a mortal, after all, before the son of a god?


	2. The beautiful and the damned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: some depictions of violence, near suicidal thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two folks! Thank you for all your wonderful comments and support on the first chapter, you honestly don’t know how much they mean to me :))

  
“Who would have thought the son of a goddess would have such shit aim?” Achilles lowered his arm to scowl at Patroclus, who grinned at him lazily from the shade of a fig tree. The tree was old. Old enough that the lowermost boughs had begun to sag so they brushed against his face with every twist of the light summer breeze. Perhaps if it wasn’t quite so hot, or he wasn’t quite so tired, he might have had the energy to lift an arm and pluck one of the purple figs swelling amongst the leaves.

But he was very tired. And so very hot.

“It’s not my fault, it’s the wind.” Achilles threw his knife again, cursing as it missed the jagged cross they had cut into the back of a slatted wooden shield. The knife fell into the sand with a dull thud.

“Ah, yes, the wind.” Patroclus let his head flop onto the sweaty cushion of his forearms and continued to watch Achilles through one eye, “well, could you ask the wind to move over here, I think I’m about to melt.”

Achilles ignored him, scampering forward to collect the knives scattered around the base of the target.

It had been nearly a year since Achilles had marched into Patroclus’ cell, green eyes aflame and teeth flashing. He had snapped, no snarled, at the nearest guard to unchain Patroclus or so help him, they would face the wrath of every god in the murky depths of the sea.

“But my prince, his Majesty-”

“Says yes.”

Peleus had emerged, a limp and pallid figure beside the son who must have been only a quarter his age. He had spared a glance in Patroclus’ direction.

“Unchain the beast, it will do well for my son to have a challenge, and care for something for once in his life.”

A beast. Something. Some thing.

That was the extent to what Patroclus was in the eyes of the king. The chains were removed. The collar remained.

A dangerous thing, then.

But Achilles had never looked on him with fear. He knew about the boy he killed. He asked him about it one night when they escaped the palace walls to watch the passage of the stars. Stretched out under the cavern of the sky, Patroclus had let Achilles move closer until the air between them was warm with their body heat.

No closer though. The collar was still drawn tight enough he felt its tug with every breath. And some nights he still awoke, a scream caught in his throat, crying out for the part of his soul trapped deep inside him.

The demon words sometimes whispered to him when these nights passed. They would stroke his arms with phantom hands, purring promises of freedom, power, blood. And then they would point at the door to Achilles’ room and ask _why don’t you start with him? It is he that keeps you here with that collar around your neck._

Recently, it had become easier to shake those hands away. And most nights, the voices didn’t come at all. Yet, Patroclus still insisted on sleeping outside the door to Achilles room. It was a rule Peleus had insisted on. Achilles wasn’t a fan of Peleus’ rules.

Achilles threw himself beside Patroclus, tossing an arm stained brown by the sun across his face. His white chiton was crusted with sand and stiff from running through the sea. Patroclus tried not to groan. The washer women would undoubtedly tell him to clean it. Is your fault, they would say, we clean our prince’s clothes, with you, he is wild thing. And then they would push a bucket of water into his arms, with all Achilles’ dirty washing, and he would spend the afternoon watching his arms wrinkle in the water as he scrubbed grime and salt from linen, cursing Achilles’ name under his breath.

The truth was, he didn’t know what he was to Achilles. At first, he thought he might be a body guard. In Opus, that’s what Lykos generally became, if they were lucky. Superior scent and strength and, well, the fact they could turn in wolves, made them useful guards or soldiers.

But with the collar on, he was little better than an ordinary human.

Among the court, only Achilles showed him the respect a friend of the prince might have, so it was clear that was not how he was viewed.

Companion, Achilles would say if he asked him. As he spoke, he would reach out a hand, softened with the scented oils they traded from the south, and try and brush it against Patroclus’ hair. He would flinch away. He always did.

This relationship, this- whatever they had, was as much an illusion as the voices in his head.

“You know, I think I’ll stick to spears.” Achilles said, words muffled by the arm still thrown across his face.

“You’ll get there.” Patroclus picked at the broad strands of grass still clinging to life in the shade of the tree, “you always do.”

Achilles pushed himself up on one arm and propped his head on his hand. He peered down at Patroclus, blonde hair tangled with briars from the woods they had explored this morning.

“Why don’t you give it a try?”

Patroclus raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? Your aim can’t be that much worse than mine.” He leapt up, bare soles making hardly a sound as he danced out of the dappled light of the tree, “don’t tell me you’re scared, son of Menoetius.”

Patroclus didn’t rise to bait. Not anymore. But he stood up with a groan anyway, shuddering briefly as the blood rushed to his head. If he didn’t give in now, Achilles was bound to be persistent until he drove him mad. If he had a flaw, it was his persistence.

Of course, Achilles would argue that wasn’t a flaw.

Patroclus took a knife from Achilles, feeling the smoothness of the handle in his palm. They had been a gift from Peleus now that Achilles had reached the grand age of eleven. The wood was warm, though either from the Sun, or Achilles’ own hands, he wasn’t sure. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt and levelled his eyes with the target. He copied Achilles’ stance from earlier, drawing his arm back and placing the other one before him to line up his focus with the cross.

For two breaths, his world narrowed down to the weight of the knife in his hand, and the bullseye gashed into wood. And the solid presence of Achilles at his side.

_What are you waiting for?_

Achilles laughing and swayed closer, arm reaching to brush his side,

_Hands on his arms, pushing him down._

_Murmurs twisting through his veins, cramping in his muscles. Voices screaming._

Blood rushed through the channels of his ears.

_Kill the boy, let his body be our sacrifice to the gods. We will be free._

Free.

Patroclus dropped the knife, falling to his knees. A wrenching choke forced its way out of his throat and his hands came up to grasp at the collar.

It was too tight. He couldn’t breath. He couldn’t see.

_Kill the boy, and this will all be over._

“Patroclus! Oh gods. Patroclus, Patroclus.” Achilles dropped beside him, hands hovering over his heaving back, “what can I do? Should I call for someone?”

Patroclus tore his hands from his throat and buried them deep in the sand. The dry heat scorched his palms, the grains dragging against his skin like a thousand tiny teeth.

Out of the corner of his eye. The knife. Glinting white in the sun.

“Get away.” He whispered around the growl building in his chest, “I can’t-”

On his third breath, the scent of something earthy, like spiced woods, had his heart freezing in his chest and he jolted back, away from the target. Away from Achilles. He fell into a bow.

“Father.” Patroclus didn’t look up, but by the way the light suddenly darkened around him, he knew Achilles had come to stand in front of him. He let his face sink into the warm embrace of the ground, trying to hide the way his muscles still twitched. Don’t breathe in too deep. Don’t move.

“My son.” The old king offered no greeting to Patroclus. If he even spared him a glance, Patroclus didn’t know. He sipped in air through bared teeth, face still pressed against the hot sand. If Patroclus looked in his heart for any bitterness against Achilles’ father, he knew he would find none. When it came to Achilles’ protection of him, Patroclus and Peleus were on the same page in their confusion. Patroclus was a murderer, a monster, not even a human. If Patroclus had a child, he was not sure he would let them near anyone like him.

Of course, there was no point in telling that to Achilles.

“How are you finding your knives?”

The question passed across Patroclus’ ears as murky as if he was lying beneath the surface of a running river as Peleus and Achilles watched on from the bank. His heart still throbbed like a wild thing against his rib cage.

“Very good, thank you, father.”

There was silence then, when only the rush of the sea against pebbles could be heard. The distant shouts of men at the harbour filled the void between them. From the corner of his eye, Patroclus watched a tiny spider crawl from under a sun cracked leaf. The collar pulsed at his throat.

“We are expecting a visit from the king of Ithaca in the next few days. Odysseus is an old friend of mine, and his wife, Penelope, is expected to come with him. I need you to be good whilst he is here, Achilles.”

The meaning behind his words were thinly veiled. If you are going to keep that beast, around I advise you keep it on a shorter leash.

“Of course, father.”

Achilles was on him as soon as Peleus had left.

“Are you alright now? Patroclus, what happened?”

Patroclus raised his hands, trying to laugh as he backed away. Achilles took the message.

“It must be the heat. I told you it’s never suited me well.”

Achilles looked doubtful. Then he frowned.

“Of course, my father had to turn up then. Of all times.” He spat into the sand, a habit he had recently picked up from watching the guards down in the market. “He treats his slaves better.” His bare foot collided with a warped chunk of wood. Patroclus watched it tumble down the beach and decided not to point out that because he wasn’t paid, he really was little better than a slave himself.

That night, Patroclus stirred at the sound of Achilles’ door opening. He slept in the small chamber just outside, on a pallet packed tight with straw. On sleepless nights, to fight away the call of the demons, he would reach out a hand to trace along the swirling tiles of the floor, and flatten his palm against them, feeling the cold clay press back at him like the flat bones of a whale’s rib-cage. He had been drawing his finger along the wandering path of a nail thin crack when Achilles’ shadow passed through the doorway. He paused to look at Patroclus and stiffened when he realised he was awake.

“Where are you going?”

“My mother, I-” Achilles dipped his head, letting hair fall across his face. His bare feet curled into the floor, “I have a bad feeling about Odysseus’ coming.”

“Why?” Patroclus turned onto his front to watch him.

“At dinner, my father was discussing the visit. He spoke of how it would be beneficial for me, for all of us. But frequently, his eyes would...” their own eyes met, “would fall on you, Patroclus. I fear he wants to send you away.”

Patroclus sat up.

“But what would Odysseus want with me? I’m an exile.”

“You’re a Lykos.” Achilles looked away, face shrouded again. “My mother will know what to do.”

When the patter of his feet against the floor had faded from Patroclus’ ears, he lay frozen in his bed. The cold seeping through the tiles against his palm had suddenly washed across his whole body.

Peleus was right. In the last year, he thought the demons inside him had weakened, if not passed. Yet even now, over and over, he heard their voices calling to him to clutch at the knife and plunge it into Achilles’ heart. More vivid even than the image of the first boy he murdered was the sight of Achilles on his knees, blood melting through his fingers, staring up at him in fear. Fear that would descend into hatred as his life stuttered into nothing. And then the light would fade from his body and he would collapse to the ground. Achilles reduced to nothing but flesh and bones. By his hand.

The thought was worse than death.

At best, the rest of the world saw Lykos as weapons in war. At worst, they were a a curse to be ended at birth. His father used to remind Patroclus how lucky he was for being allowed to live past the first minutes of being born. Peleus would never say such a thing to his son. His son did not deserve to hear such things.

Patroclus let the gathering storm in his chest leave with a groan. The last year had been a paradise he should never had witnessed. He would keep it close to his heart for the rest of his life, however short it might be. But it was time to wake up from this dream.

He closed his eyes against the grey light of the moon and saw golden hair. Olive skin. Hands, reaching out like the long feathers of a gull’s wing.

For once, a new voice joined the demons lingering in his mind. A small, selfish whisper of a voice.

Don’t take me away from him. Don’t make me leave Achilles’ side.

* * *

  
  


_Ice_

_Salt_

_The murky breath of a wave._

_When Patroclus opened his eyes, he was standing on the shore of a beach. The velvet grey of clouds gathered above him. Black shells dug into his feet. On instinct, his hand raised to run along the thick band around his neck, feeling the ridges of the collar, the dips and grains of leather that had become so familiar to him over the last year._

_He shivered and let it rub against his skin._

_‘Patroclus’_

_A woman stood in front of him. Her hair was black. Her mouth gaped in a bloody slash around the word as she spoke his name._

_It was her._

_He bowed, falling to the ground. Crushed shells cut into his palms. He kept his eyes down turned._

_“My lady.” He didn’t know the right words. How does one address a god?_

_‘Achilles pleads for your safety.’ Her words rushed against him with the force of an ocean current. He didn’t dare respond._

_Something brushed his nape, parting the thick curls to touch his neck. Fingers, as cold and unyielding as stone. He shuddered, but didn’t move._

_‘Protect my son.’ This time, the words were whispered close against his ear. He nodded._

_“I’d do anything.”_

_A jagged smile._

_‘Good.’_


	3. The first murmurs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Odysseus arrives.
> 
> Warnings: descriptions of violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A-Levels are back with a vengeance (or are they? Who knows, not the government) and unfortunately fanfiction isn’t considered a ‘useful way to spend my time’. I’ll still do my best to keep updates regular!
> 
> Also, has anyone read The Silence of the Girls? I reread it recently, and it’s so interesting drawing comparisons between it and TSOA.
> 
> Anyway, on with the story:

  
“My Prince Achilles, did you hear me?” The lyre teacher leant forward, spindly hands resting on his knees. Achilles jerked. He tightened his fingers on the lyre’s frame and let his face light up in a brilliant smile.

“My apologies.”

They were meant to be playing out in one of the courtyards today, as they had been all summer. Patroclus seemed to prefer it. He refused to play the lyre, but Achilles’ teacher was content with letting him sit in during their lessons, as long as he didn’t interfere. Patroclus would perch in the shadows and draw idle patterns in the dust, listening to Achilles play.

But the heat of the last few days had swelled the sky with heavy clouds and an oppressive stillness that had sent the fishermen hurrying in early. A storm lingered on the horizon.

So they had come inside.

Achilles brought his fingers across the lyre’s strings, letting the familiar tensions drag at his fingertips. The vibrations sung over the back of his hand. He felt a smile tug at his lips. It was a new piece they were going over, and would typically accompany a singer. The tale was a tragic one. It began with soft rippling notes, the tones of a tender love formed in youth. The melody deepened in the second half as the young lovers were ripped apart by a betrayal, and ended in sweeping chords with death. Death and despair. A typical romantic tale Patroclus would probably scoff at.

He sat there now, a shadow against the window, cast in soft grey light. Achilles remembered when he had first arrived, in the belly of that black timbered ship. How that day, a gull had settled in the window, just as Patroclus did now, and looked in on his lesson. How godlike the bird had seemed. Broad winged and untouchable. Free.

A last stroke of sun gleamed against Patroclus’ neck, casting his dimpled leather collar in a cruel halo of light. Not like the gull at all. Patroclus wasn’t free.

He had his head leant against the stone arch, hands running up and down his legs as if he was cold. Achilles knew he wasn’t. Patroclus didn’t get cold easily. He didn’t get hot easily either. His hand stilled against the lyre’s strings, his mother’s words from last night burning in his mind.

“My prince.” The teacher sighed. Patroclus glanced in their direction and met Achilles’ gaze. He raised an eyebrow and then stroked the thin hairs by his ears in imitation of the teacher.

Achilles did his best to swallow his laugh, but the lyre teacher knew when he was defeated. He sighed again and patted his hair line in exasperation.

“Let us finish early today my prince. It wouldn’t do for your luck to be smiling when finishing such a tragic piece. I am sure the king will want you in good time to meet King Odysseus.”

Achilles swiftly wrapped his lyre in the oil cloth, fingers shaking against the wood. He had hoped, secretly, that Odysseus’ ship would crack its hull against some rocks on the journey. Or at least be waylaid by the weather. He had forgotten how the gods had favourites. Ducking his head in thanks, he and Patroclus left the room, trailing down to the harbour with feet of lead.

But, and Achilles let his eyes find the distant haze of Odysseus’ ship reaching the headland, he needed no good luck. Achilles had been born soaked in the god’s good graces, and he held all their praises in his hand.

Patroclus stood behind Achilles at the palace gate. From here, they could see the thin smudge of Peleus’s form against the soft evening sky, walking forward to greet Odysseus and his wife from Ithaca. The ship had pulled in with the rumble of a storm, its sails filled with god-given wind. Odysseus had favour amongst the divine, his wit and intelligence winning him fire side stories, some of which had fallen even on Patroclus’ ears.

Penelope stood beside him as he was greeted. She lowered her head out of respect, but no more than that when Peleus turned to her. She was a queen after all. Suddenly, Peleus appeared very alone up there by the grand Ithacan ship. Did he ever think of his own wife? Thetis, the sea nymph, who had waited a whole year, chained like a dog to the land, waiting to be set free from him.

Patroclus let his eyes fall on the back of Achilles’ head. His friend was staring out to the harbour, his eyes as storm blown as the sea. They watched the party approach in silence. Patroclus hadn’t asked what his mother had said.

Peleus paused when he reached them to show off his son. Patroclus bowed to Odysseus, murmuring a greeting. Achilles moved a pace back to stand beside him. He didn’t say a word.

“My son, Achilles.” Despite the frustration in his tone at Achilles’ lack of respect, Patroclus noticed how his eyes shone. With pride? No, Patroclus watched how the lines creased around his mouth when he spoke. It was deeper than that. Love. Unconditional love.

Patroclus turned his head down again. He knew when Odysseus’ gaze moved past Achilles to rest on him.

“And this must be your son’s... dear companion.”

“My dearest companion.” Achilles said. He had his arms held taut as his sides. Patroclus wished he could reach out, place a hand on his shoulder. Tell him it was okay.

But he couldn’t touch him. And he couldn’t tell him it was okay.

_They’re going to take me away._

Achilles watched them move on with a scowl.

“He doesn’t even know your name.” 

  
  
  


Achilles was whisked away as soon as they returned to the castle, despite his protests.

“Patroclus can dress me, he usually does.” He told the servant who met them outside their rooms. The servant looked Patroclus over from his place at Achilles’ shoulder. Her brows drew together in displeasure.

“Perhaps for a simple evening meal, my prince, but your father has requested I assist you this evening, rather than your companion.” Her tone soured as she addressed Patroclus.

Achilles had looked like he was about to protest further, so Patroclus let his hand brush against his arm. Briefly. The barest of touches. But it had Achilles’ head whipping to meet his gaze, mouth parted in a half formed word.

“It’s alright, my prince,” Achilles frowned at the title, “I’m sure the king would prefer me helping in the dining hall this evening.”

He left before Achilles could say another word, partly because he knew if he stared at him a moment longer he really would ignore Peleus’ orders.

But also because something was wrong with his collar.

He paused in an alcove, folding his body into the shadow of a statue of the goddess, Artemis. Letting his hair cushion the back of his head, he leant back against the plinth and felt along the edge of the collar, pushing two fingers up between the stiff leather and his neck. It was no looser, he couldn’t twist his fingers around, as usual. He let the digits trace to the clasp at the back. It was metal, warmed by his skin and smooth against the pads of his fingers. It was a special kind of clasp, that could only be forged by the most skilled blacksmiths, as in once closed, it was impossible to reopen, formed when the metal was still soft enough to manipulated. It was not a collar that was designed to be removed.

And it felt as it always had. Immovable when he tried tugging on it.

But just then... back there standing next to Achilles he had felt a flicker of life in his heart, from a part of his soul he had thought gone forever. He clutched at his chest, feeling his blood pulse against his knuckles and took a breath.

After a heartbeat’s pause, his wolf called back. It was only the faintest of stirs, but at the movement, a jolt ran up his back, as if he had been touched by the god Zeus.

His hands rose again to the collar, but then, voices. He descended further into the shadows.

“At first we thought it might be purely business, but King Odysseus has brought his wife.”

“Penelope?”

“I saw her descend from the ship on his arm.”

“And? Is she as beautiful as the myths say? Or were you looking elsewhere?”

Laughter.

“Hush now, this is not what we are here to discuss.”

The speakers moved closer until they stood on the other side of the statue, but their words descended into whispers. Patroclus let the air dissolve on his tongue, dampening the joy of his wolf surging hot in his veins.

“A union? You think that is likely?”

“Likely, and dangerous. Peleus has only one son. We would lose our chance if Achilles was to take an Ithacan wife.”

Patroclus tried to swallow.

“But Odysseus has no daughters.”

“None that we know of.”

More stifled laughter.

“If we can, find a way to drive make such a union seem unfavourable,” a pause, “no, impossible. If their plan goes ahead, the houses of Phthia and Ithaca will be joined.”

More was said, but the men moved away, their words lost to a scurrying wind. Not for the first time, Patroclus cursed his weakened hearing.

He rose and came out from the shadows and looked up into the stone gaze of Artemis.

Why was Odysseus really here?

_Don’t take me away from him._

Artemis stared back, her hand half raised in an eternal cry of triumph.

An unknown servant filled Achilles’ goblet with the darkest wine he had seen in his father’s halls. The red bled against the cold metal of his cup and he stared into it until his reflection swam into focus.

The servants had pulled his hair back with sharp hands, tugging at the strands, trying to smooth out the twists and coils of gold. A fine purple robe had carefully been pleated, arranged and fastened with a gold belt around his waist, covering the white linen chiton underneath. It was more cloth than he was used to wearing and he envied the simple servant clothing Patroclus had on.

His companion was at the far end of the hall, filling some preening nobleman’s own goblet. The man barely acknowledged Patroclus, holding it towards him as he leant forward to laugh open mouthed, and drooling, at some joke or meaningless comment.

Achilles ignored his own wine and dug an elbow into the table, face sinking into his palm. He knew his mother cared nothing for Patroclus. But she cared for him. Though her face had twisted in displeasure when he asked for her help, she had promised to do what she could. His eyes swept along the table to where Odysseus sat beside his father. The man was more muscular than Achilles had imagined after all the talk about his great wit. It seemed Odysseus was strong in both body and mind.

Though that wouldn’t stop Achilles from hurting him if he tried to take Patroclus away.

“My prince, Achilles.” The man was addressing him now, eyes glistening jewel-like, from the brown leather of his face, “tell me, are you yet of age?”

Father spoke for Achilles, waving a hand in the direction of his son.

“Achilles is but eleven, he is still a child in our lands.”

“And in mine.” Odysseus’s hand folded around Penelope’s. She smiled at him. “But you must have started looking for a suitable wife.”

Peleus laughed as Achilles began to zone out of the conversation. He had never had an interest in marrying. He never would.

He watched Patroclus move across the hall. Even from here, the collar was stark against his neck. Most of the guests here wouldn’t know what it truly meant. They might think him a slave. Perhaps one of the young boys nobles with enough money would take into their beds. Achilles let cold anger sit in his stomach as another guest pushed past Patroclus in their hurry to move up the hall. The jug of wine slipped from Patroclus’ fingers and the crash as it hit the floor had a few nearby women shrieking. Shrieks that descended into laughter when they realised what had happened. Someone cuffed Patroclus around the head as he stooped to pick up the jug, face red. Achilles glared at them.

But then there was a cry. Someone let out a shout.

The man who had pushed past Patroclus was still rushing up to the head table. Achilles saw a glint of metal in his hand.

But by then the guards had already leapt forward. Two came to stand in front of the table, their broad shoulders blocking the sight of the rest wrestling the assassin to the floor. The other guests had risen to their feet in a flurry of screams and cries. Tables grunted against the floor as people moved away in their shock.

It wasn’t necessary, the assassin was quickly knocked out with one swift blow to the head. Achilles let his hand loosen on the knife it had unconsciously curled around. His father laughed heartily, reaching out to pat his shoulder.

“Achilles, are you-” a breath passed between them, as Achilles opened his mouth to wave his father away. The assassin had barely reached the hall’s centre. But then the old man’s face was twisting and he recoiled in horror.

“Achilles!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Achilles saw the second man, dressed entirely in black, slip out of the shadows, a narrow sword in his hand.

Ah, so the first was a distraction.

His thoughts, like the scene before him, passed through his mind in slow motion. Guards diving foreword to grab at the man, the cry of his father behind him, hands tugging at his clothes, the knife slipping, pointless from his grasp, everything passed in the time it took to release a breath.

He closed his eyes.

Could he die?

He was a half-god after all.

And then something heavy hit his chest and he was shoved to the ground. His head hit the hard tiled floor and for a moment the world blurred into screams. And the snarls of something big. And angry.

The hands were back on Achilles, pulling him up and his father’s face swum into view, mouth opening and closing in silent questions. Achilles’ eyes drifted past him in time to see a wolf the size of a bear rip out the assassin’s throat.

His eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed.

When consciousness slipped quietly back into Achilles mind, for a few blissful seconds, he remembered nothing. Hot sand between his toes, the spike of sweat running down his back as he played on the beach the day before. Those were the memories he awoke to.

Steadily his focus centred on his left hand. It felt hot and heavy. Someone was holding it.

Dark eyes. Soft, quiet smiles.

“Patroclus?”

“Achilles.” The voice was too deep to be that of his friend’s. It grated through his head, and he groaned as a throb of pain blossomed across his skull.

His eyes opened. He was in his room, a faint evening light passing through the window to his right. His father was sitting on a low stool beside the bed. And beyond him a taller figure wrapped in a grey cloak. Odysseus.

His heart stuttered.

Promises by the sea. A knife. The rumble of a beast that had pulsed through his chest.

“Where is Patroclus?”

His father gripped Achilles’ hand tighter.

“My son, you must listen to us-”

“No. Tell me where Patroclus is.” Achilles tore his hand away and tried swinging his legs onto the ground. The world swayed.

“Achilles, please.” His father’s hands grasped his shoulders. The felt immeasurably weak against him, and for a second Achilles considered throwing him to the side and racing through the palace. He would tear it apart if he had to. And then, if Patroclus was no where to be found, he would fall upon Odysseus’ ships and turn them upside down for his friend.

He saw the wolf again, more vividly in his mind. Every strand of fur burnished against the sun as its jaws closed around the assassin’s throat. Massive paws encircled the human chest, five claws gleaming. Achilles knew Lykos were big, but Patroclus, as a human had that fragile quality about him. In his large, gangly hands and soft dark hair. Achilles still remembered how his eyes had shone through the grime of the palace cells when Achilles first sought him out. The way he had flinched at Achilles’ movements. And then, when the muzzle (his chest burnt at the thought of it), had finally been removed, how he had offered him the smallest fleeting of a smile.

Of course, his father did not see that boy. His father only saw a threat. A monster.

Odysseus was worse, he saw a weapon.

Achilles let his gaze fall on the king of Ithaca.

“I won’t let you take him.”

His father grasped his knee through the blanket.

“Achilles, please. Some respect.”

But Odysseus laughed. He unwound himself from the cloak and stood up, large hands grasped together in front of his chest.

“No, young Achilles, it has become quite clear to me I will not be taking your friend away.”

Breath left Achilles in a sudden stream. He leant back against the head board, giddy with relief.

They weren’t taking Patroclus away.

Or, Odysseus wasn’t taking Patroclus away. He shook his father’s hand from his leg.

“Then why are you here?”

Odysseus moved closer, ducking into the dim candle light so the deep greys of his eyes glinted with the brightness of coins.

“I will confess, my original intention on coming to Phthia was to acquire the young Lykos. The hope was to found a greater unity between our two kingdoms.” He went to take another step closer, but at Achilles’ glare, he sighed, raising his hands in the air, “but my goals have now changed.”

“What do you want?” Peleus closed his eyes at Achilles’ tone.

“King Odysseus has taken back his claim on Patroclus. A unity is still needed between out two households, though since neither of us have daughters, other arrangements will need to be made.”

Achilles watched his father carefully. Until today, he had barely acknowledged Patroclus above the cattle that slept in the filth. He had even treated Patroclus like livestock, willing to trade his life for Ithaca’s support and wealth. What had changed. Why was he listening to Achilles now. And how long until he changed his mind? If Patroclus was disposable goods, when Phthia next struck problems, he would be whisked away in the belly of a different ship. It was the same result, even if it was a different time.

His gaze fell on his hands, slender and dark against the linen blanket.

“Then I will offer my own life in return.”

Patroclus’ fingers rubbed against his neck. The skin was chaffed, probably permanently scarred from a year of the collar. It was strange taking a breath and feeling no tightness, no restriction pressing against his throat.

He was curled by the door to Achilles chambers. Inside, low voices murmured in tune with the wind prowling against the walls outside. He watched his toes, pale in the moon’s light, against the stone floor. He should be cold, but-

He breathed in again, feeling how the air rushed down his throat and swelled in the cavern of his chest. He imagined each individual rib expanding, pushing outwards. And then he closed his eyes and felt his wolf rumble in return. A grin stretched across his face.

It was fleeting. And then he felt his teeth click together in his jaw and heard the noise echo through his mind. His teeth, bigger and sharper than they were now, closing again to take another life.

He saw that assassin’s face now. One of the men he had seen earlier of course. A husband perhaps, a father. Unlike the first time, the light hadn’t slipped quickly from his body, but clung to his limbs in twitching spasms for minutes after Patroclus’ teeth crushed his windpipe.

But the worst part was, he didn’t feel anything.

When blood blossomed across his mind, staining his nightmares in red, it didn’t belong to the man he killed. It belonged to Achilles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm, I sure hope Odysseus won’t take Achilles up on his offer.
> 
> As I said, hopefully the next update is not too far off, see you then!


	4. Into the light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand we’re back with chapter 4! Who would have thought I originally planned this as a one shot. To make up for the slightly longer wait, I’ve been doing a bit of doodling for the next chapter if anyone was wondering what the size difference was between Lykos and humans (but bear with, I am not, as the poets say an ‘artiste’). Hopefully I’ll figure out how to post pictures on Ao3 before then...
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of torture and abuse

  
“Come closer, child.”

The boy edged into the light. Early morning warmth had begun to glow through the tall windows of the throne room, dissolving shadow into the corners of stones and tiles. Peleus leant forward, hands clasping the arms of his chair. The boy came into view.

He wasn’t big. Maybe a little taller than Achilles, but that was only down to age. His frame was narrow, sparrow-like limbs splaying into boney hands and dusty feet. His hair was dark and curly like the sheep which grazed on the rocky hills of the Othrys mountains. The eyes which met Peleus’s were bright. They lacked the soft innocence of childhood which still lingered in Achilles, but the eyes of a child nonetheless.

Peleus sighed, fingers finding his temple and rubbing in small, neat circles.

The child’s own fingers danced over his neck, where a pale ring of skin stood out. Even in the morning gloom Peleus could see how the skin was chaffed there. He could guess the boy’s thoughts.

“Do not worry, the collar has been put away.”

The boy started, then nodded, looking down at his shuffling feet.

Put away. An understatement perhaps. The collar had been found swollen and cracked under a dining table as servants cleared the blood from the assassin. Peleus had inspected it himself. Traced the thin line of sea salt that ran along the splintered metal. He had smelt her scent.

“You wanted to speak to me, my king.”

Peleus unfolded himself from the chair, holding in a groan as every bone in his body protested, clicking slowly into place. Each day he felt more and more like the old boards and rigging of a ship past its best. Hands smoothing at his robe, he went to stand by the window, and let the early sunlight warm across his back.

The child watched him. He noticed how the breath fluttered in his throat.

Achilles was out training. There was no need for him to hear this. For now, anyway. He wouldn’t understand.

“You have heard the story of Heracles?”

“Yes.” Barely a murmur. The boy was frowning. Peleus had told this story before to the two of them. Achilles curled at his feet, the boy in the shadows, watching on with eyes that flickered in the light.

“And how he was driven mad by the goddess Hera. So mad, he did not recognise those he loved. Not even his own wife and children. Do you know, child, how he killed his own family in such a rage, their screams did nothing to stir the memories of the love he felt for them. Do you know this story, child?”

The boy swallowed. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of his legs.

“I do.”

“And do you know why I tell you this?”

“Yes.”

Their eyes met in the dark space of the hall, and as they did, the sun finally bloomed above the horizon and glinted across the boy’s eyes, lighting the dark irises into a throbbing gold. The same eyes which had risen cold and blood-stained from the body of that man.

The man who had tried to kill Peleus’ son. But a man, still. Killed by the child in front of him.

Achilles would never part with the boy. They had known each other for little over a year, yet the child had become Achilles’ shadow. A shadow which had proven it could protect his son. Loyally, perhaps unquestioningly. But by the gods, Lykos were dangerous. Peleus should have never let Achilles see him. He should never have taken on the boy at all.

He rubbed at his temples.

“Few people south of here will know of your kind beyond the myths which circulate the kingdoms. Yet it is south of here I fear your path will lead you.”

_Or Achilles’ path, since I know you will follow him wherever he goes_.

Bitterly, he remembered Achilles’ promise to Odysseus.

“I know well enough now you would not willingly hurt my son. But it is not always up to you. Is it?”

The boy’s nails pressed against his chiton, digging blunt crescents into the fabric.

“In a few years, Achilles will ascend into the mountains to learn with the centaur, Chiron. I will send you with him. Perhaps you will learn something yourself. Learn something _about_ yourself.” Peleus watched the boy tense even more, “I am not going to send you away, Patroclus. I want you to protect my son.”

The boy didn’t say anything, and Peleus dismissed him with a wave of his hand. He heard how the soft patter of his feet sped up once he left the confines of the room. He imagined him now, the wolf boy racing through the halls and out into the broad sunlight of the palace grounds. He saw him skidding into Achilles’ training yard. How Achilles’ face would light up as he saw him and they would laugh and play together, away from the prying eyes of Peleus. Equals now the collar was gone from Patroclus’ neck. Or at least, as equal as they ever could be.

Peleus would visit the temple this afternoon and pray. He would pray to every god who had ever blessed him that he had made the right decision in letting a beast into the flower fields of his life.

“King Odysseus, your Majesty.”

Peleus shook the thoughts of the boys from his head.

“Have you discovered anything?”

Odysseus shook out his cloak. It was flecked in red. He had taken part in the questioning himself.

“It took some time. The poor fellow seemed half-mad with fear from your son’s pet.” He laughed, cold and airy, “there was rambling, a prophecy. As we suspected, they were attempting to stop the unification of our lands.”

Peleus sat down. This treaty of theirs had been in the planning stages when Peleus was newly crowned on the throne. Both Ithaca and Phthia were small, fractions of the cities of Sparta or Athens. Ithaca, on the far side of Greece would safely secure an ally in the West that Phthia sorely needed. It wasn’t a popular treaty, both in Phthia, from the people who didn’t trust anyone beyond the kingdom’s borders, and other lands where he knew kings would feel threatened by growing alliances.

“And do you know who sent him?”

“Well, that’s the odd thing.” The lines on Odysseus’s face deepened into the map of a frown, “I was expecting someone from one of the smaller kingdoms that line our borders. Though even Menelaus has sent me a stiff letter about our plans. But no, the man is from Opus.”

Peleus really needed to visit the temple.

  
  


Odysseus left the next day, and he took the surviving assassin with him. A small farewell party gathered at the harbour to see them off. it was a chill morning, and Patroclus watched as Achilles rubbed his foot against his ankle, tensing as he held back a shiver.

Penelope paused when she passed them. She bowed her farewells, and as she rose, her eyes fell on Patroclus. He held his breath. His newly regained scent had opened the gates to the spikes in sweat and adrenaline which told of delight, fear, disgust. For some reason, he didn’t like the idea of Penelope finding him disgusting. Achilles would say she didn’t matter, but was it wrong for Patroclus to wish to be liked?

But her eyes were soft when his gaze met hers. She didn’t bow, but the corners of her lips quirked up in a smile. He dipped his head in return.

Odysseus followed with his men, the assassin chained in their midst. Across the whine of the harbour platform, and the stamping feet of soldiers, the man suddenly turned his head, so his eyes met with Patroclus.

Like Penelope, they were not filled with fear either. Through the thick brine of salty sweat, Patroclus smelt, triumph? He stared as the man winked, once, and then allowed himself to be pulled forward, jerking at the chain around his neck.

“Patroclus?” Achilles watched him at his shoulder. His hand reached up, and then he was brushing at a curl in Patroclus’ eyes before he had time to stop him.

“Forget them, they’re gone now.”

Patroclus tried to match his smile.

* * *

They returned to Achilles’ chambers to find someone had moved the pallet into his room. It now lay in the small alcove underneath the high set windows, small and pallid against the deep yellow stone. Patroclus sat down, feeling the straw squeak underneath him. The room itself was sparse. The large windows looked out towards the sea and ushered in the calls of the world beyond. A bed framed with smooth pale wood lay across from a chest where Achilles stored his clothes, and a small collection of shells perched liked tiny birds on a low built table at the centre of the room. But beyond that, it spoke little of the boy who slept here. It was a simple room for a prince. A prince who spent most of his days outside. Of course, Patroclus had been in here before, but now the space felt precious. It was his as well.

The light, which fell in flecked streams of dust, passed across Achilles hair as he strutted over to Patroclus. He bent into a squat before him, bracing his arms across his knees.

Patroclus knew what he was thinking. He saw it in the shuttering flash of his eyes. How the green was clouded in curiosity.

“How do you do it?”

Inside Patroclus, the wolf perked up. It’s ears twitched.

We could show him.

Achilles hands crept forward, leaving his knees to linger above Patroclus’ arms. The pads of his thumbs brushed against the light hairs of his forearms. The tingle that rushed down his spine vibrated in the chest of his wolf.

Something darker stirred at the edges of his mind.

And then Achilles touched him.

Patroclus flinched. His hands flew up covering his face as his lips twitched back in a snarl.

“I’m sorry,” and he nearly choked as his voice came out layered in a growl, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what-”

Achilles had backed away as soon as he flinched. Now he was crouched, bent in on himself, as if trying to appear smaller. Except Achilles didn’t bow down for anyone. Dust fell golden on his eyelashes. His eyes were wide, but Patroclus couldn’t smell the spiked sweat of fear. He didn’t appear angry. His hands withdrew.

“It’s my fault, I know you don’t like to be touched.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it.” Patroclus bit out the words quickly, trying to squeeze them past his throat as his voice began to thicken. He pressed a palm against his eyes as he felt them heat up.

“Why do you always move away from me then?” This was Achilles. Blunt, straight-forward. His tone wasn’t frustrated, or even accusatory. It carried the confidence of someone who was used to getting what he wanted.

The question cracked against Patroclus’ fragile defences. He wanted to answer, gods, he wanted to tell him the truth, but he didn’t know what to say.

I share my body with a wolf and my mind with a demon. You can never trust me, never see me how I wish you could.

Because, the thing was, he liked it when Achilles touched him. He had seen the way Odysseus moved with his wife. A casual hand at her waist, linking fingers so they curled around each other like the vines in the groves of the palace grounds. It looked... nice. Beyond nice. At night, caught in the grey light between dusk and dawn, he would dream of Achilles moving to cup his face, his slim calloused thumbs rising to brushing under his eyes, a hand, warm and steady on his shoulder. It was worse now he could smell better, the salty twang of sweat breaking down into fresh green herbs and cut wood. He wanted Achilles to hold him. His fingers dug against his thighs.

Wind scurried through the window above them, blowing cold against his neck. A bronze cast image of Heracles bloomed in his mind. It had been cast onto a shield in his father’s halls, set in a frame high above the throne. A symbol of the strength of Opus. But also the madness. The cursed. Something touched his collarbone, and Patroclus realised his hand had half risen, unbidden to rub at his neck.

He didn’t deserve Achilles’ touch.

He turned away from Achilles, gesturing vaguely.

“My father. You know, we never had a good relationship.” It was a half truth. He couldn’t lie to Achilles.

Something cold flashed across Achilles’ face. His sharp exhale of breath brushed the curls from Patroclus’ forehead.

“He hurt you?”

Disciplining your children wasn’t uncommon in Opus. It wasn’t rare in Phthia either, Patroclus had seen fishermen cuffing their sons on the head if they slipped up carrying crates of fish. Peleus never hit Achilles, but that was because his son was already perfect.

Patroclus kept his gaze firmly fixed on patch of sun beyond Achilles’ left ear. He chose his next words carefully.

“He only acted as any father would to a son like me.”

“A son like you- oh Patroclus.”

Again, Achilles’ hands fluttered towards him, begging for contact. His wolf whined to reach back.

_I can’t._

_Why not?_

_You know why._

After a second, Achilles withdrew, but he stayed close, bouncing on the balls on his feet, hands clasped around his toes.

“You never answered my question though, how do you do it?”

Patroclus reached deep into himself, his wolf rising to meet him.

_you can trust us, we love him too._

* * *

  
  


Rosey-fingered Dawn skated her fingers across the sea, plucking at the grey wisps of cloud clinging to the corners of the night. She reached Phthia in long unhurried steps and rested on a cluster of rocks to watch her work spread in white gold streams across the kingdom.

The barest whisper of breaking water told her a dear companion had come to join Dawn on the rocks.

“Thetis.”

The nymph nodded her head in greeting, morning light glowing warm against the translucent skin on the back of her neck. She raised a slender arm to draw dark hair over her shoulder and swung her feet to dangle from the rock edge so swirls and eddies of water brushed against her toes.

“You are troubled, dear.” Dawn rested against an outcrop of stone still cool from the moon’s rays. She watched the nymph stare out across the sea. In the distance was the narrow strip of beach which burnt along Phthia’s coast. Dawn followed her gaze.

A dark smudge was moving steadily across the sand. She leant forward, narrowing her eyes (the eyes of a god perhaps, but Dawn enjoyed these little human habits) and saw how the shape distilled into the form of a rider. A young man, no a boy maybe, built fine-limbed and tall, the trailing curls of his hair caught golden in the light. But that was not a horse galloping underneath him. No horse could run that fast or cover so much ground in such loping bounds.

“That is your human child.” She said, “with his companion.”

“Yes, my son, Achilles.”

“And Patroclus, honour of the father.”

Thetis laughed, and the sound echoed as if they reclined on the silty sea bed.

“As if that boy was born for his father alone.”

Dawn drew her head to the side.

“You believe then, in the prophecy of Lykos?”

“Dear sister, it is more than a belief,” Thetis pulled back her lips, exposing thin translucent teeth, “if Zeus has deigned me with any knowledge at all, it is in relation to those cursed beasts.”

Dawn smiled, and curled a golden ringlet between two long, dark fingers, “the boy is special then?”

“If he were not, you think I would have let him stay with my son? Two years ago, Achilles’ father tried to send him away with the King of Ithaca. As always he is a fool. If he knew,” she inhaled, bitter and cold, “if he knew what that boy is to our son, he would have looked beyond the human myths of Lykos.”

“So what of the prophecy regarding Achilles?”

Thetis drew her hand across the rock, salt water staining it black. Morning spilled across her hair.

“Artemis owes me a promise. Perhaps the boy will have the power to change the fates. He was born to protect my son, and he will die before Achilles can meet a mortal end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many prophecies! Or all they all related...
> 
> Your gal just got an offer from her dream university this week, but now I need to work super hard to get the right grades (pray for me lol). Still, the next update will hopefully not be on the too distant horizon. See y’all for chapter 5 and thank you so much for reading and all your lovely comments!


	5. The second murmurs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patroclus learns more about himself. Achilles learns to ride wolves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly longer time to update, but a slightly longer chapter to make up for it! Chronologically the majority of this chapter is set in the two years between Patroclus losing his collar, and Thetis talking to Dawn.
> 
> If you were at all wondering about the size difference between Achilles and Wolf!Patroclus then I’ve done a little sketch here to deomnstrate: https://sophoccles.tumblr.com/post/642369267734609920/a-wee-sketch-for-my-current-fan-fiction-beasts-in 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

  
  
  
There are some moments Achilles remembers vividly. Most of them relate to Patroclus.

The hot summer when he stumbled across Patroclus in the deepest pits of the palace. How his eyes shone in the light of the doorway, from a face obscured by grime and the thick growth of a leather muzzle. An autumn teaching Patroclus how to run again, teaching himself how to be gentle, when Patroclus would flinch at his movements, and learning to keep his hands away from the soft curls at his ears. To stop himself tracing the moles on his shoulders.

There was the winter spent coaxing Patroclus to curl near him by the fire in the main hall. Watching the heat burn red against his cheeks, and the warmth in his own chest when Patroclus laughed fully for the first time.

Clearest of all is the spring he learnt to ride. 

They were twelve. Achilles was growing again, gaining his inches on Patroclus who remained stubbornly short. On an early morning, they clambered up to a mountain river and tried to catch silver-finned fish before the sun rose too high.

Slumped around a small campfire of clustered grass and dried drift wood, Achilles watched Patroclus carefully nudge the blackening bodies of the fish in the hot ashes.

“When I first asked how you turned into a wolf, you said it was like calling deep inside you, like pulling at a string, your other half. So is it like taking a cloak off or something. I mean, does it hurt?”

Patroclus raised an eyebrow at him across the fire.

“Why do you want to know?”

Achilles grumbled, and dug his toes into the earth, “I’m just curious. You’re my closest companion, I want to understand you.”

“It does hurt.”

“Huh?”

“I mean, not always. Not when I was younger. But that time, last year.” Patroclus picked at a tiny pebble buried in the dry earth, “I acted without thinking. It guess because it had been so long. I mean, I assume-“ he trailed off, before snapping his eyes up to Achilles, “that hurt. Like every bone in my body snapped and regrew in a fraction of a second, all at once.”

“And what about when you changed back?”

“I don’t remember, the guard knocked me out, and when I woke up I was like this.” He gestured at himself. A gangly boy with large hands and dark eyes. Achilles watched the tiny mole under his lips.

“And you haven’t tried since?”

“No,” Patroclus rubbed at his neck. The skin was still paler there, though the scars had faded into thin, silvery lines.

“Is it dangerous, you know, staying in human form for so long?”

Achilles could see the flames reflected gold in Patroclus’ eyes. He tried to think back to a year ago, the one and only time he had seen Patroclus in his wolf form. He had been conscious for mere seconds and the memory was tarnished with screams, the smell of blood. In the midst of it all, he saw the hulking shape of the Lykos. Black-brown fur, canines the size of his thumb, pink with blood. He remembered their eyes meeting. They were the same gold then. Burning, vicious and cold.

And beautiful.

Patroclus tugged a bud from one of the spiny bushes dotting the cliff top. He held it out in his palm. When he spoke, his voice was quiet.

“At the moment this flower is waiting for the sun to get warmer. Or for the rain to fall. Then it will open. If the rain falls too much, or the sun is too hot, it will drown, or wilt.” He folded it gently in his fingers and gently began to pick at the tightly wound petals, pulling them apart.

“With persuasion, this process can be sped up. At night, the flower might close its petals, sometimes they will open. But you can’t stop either from happening.” The flower lay now, peeled open into a brilliant yellow. “The opened flower is still the same thing as the bud, though it looks different and has a different purpose. I am both a wolf and a human. That is a Lykos. Like with the flower and it’s petals, it is unnatural to stay as a human for too long.” He spoke slow, without emotion, as if he was reciting lines from a scroll. The fire suddenly seemed cold in his eyes, “without the collar, eventually I will be forced into becoming a wolf.”

“So why don’t you change?”

Patroclus continued as if he had not heard him, “with some flowers, once it opens, it will not close up again. It is a flower now, not a bud. It can never go back.” Patroclus’s voice passed into a whisper.

“But before-”

“They knocked me out. I don’t know how they did it, but they shocked me back into a human. And the scary thing is, if they hadn’t, I don’t think I would have known how to turn back. When I was a child, it was easier to control, my wolf was weaker. And then it got stronger one day and,” his fingers tightened, crushing the flower. Briefly, Achilles saw the faceless boy. The one Patroclus killed when he was but a child himself. Achilles had never asked him why he did it. How one of the kindest, gentlest people he knew had killed a boy over a game of dice. He didn’t ask, because he didn’t care. Because when he looked at Patroclus, he knew he would never see a murderer staring back. Because he trusted Patroclus more than even his father.

He didn’t say anything.

“With proper training I could learn how to control it, but where am I going to get that here? Nobody even knows what Lykos are, or if they do, they hate us too much to do anything about it, I-I don’t want to become a wolf one day, and forget everything.” Achilles knew how Patroclus’ voice would grow thicker when he became emotional. He didn’t cry. He would stop, breath deeply and go quiet until he calmed down. Achilles sometimes admired him for it. When he grew angry, the whole world knew. He would roar and scream until the birds on distant trees alighted in their fright. He wondered if Patroclus had been like that once, before he learnt to fear his own anger.

Sometimes he wished Patroclus would lash out at the people who turned away from him. This morning, from his window, he watched a guard trip Patroclus as he carried his dirty clothes to the washer room. Patroclus stumbled, tottering under the armful of clothes. Then he straightened himself, ignored the snickering of the guards, and carried on.

Achilles could have killed the man, but he was too far away to see his face.

“I don’t want your protection.” Patroclus had told him when they first became friends, “I don’t want to feel like I owe you something.”

“That’s not why I do it!” Again, Achilles voice had risen in his childish petulance.

“I know you don’t, but please, just leave it.”

He wished he could hold Patroclus. And tell him he cared about him. They weren’t the right words, he knew that even then, but he didn’t know the phrase for what he really felt about Patroclus. Even if stronger words existed, he doubted he could ever put into speech the devotion he felt towards the boy across the fire.

Achilles poked at the fish closest to him and heard the scales crackle under the pressure of the stick.

“Is that why you won’t let me touch you?”

Patroclus rubbed at his eyes. He was probably trying to pretend it was the smoke.

“It’s been so long now, I sometimes can’t tell the difference between my own thoughts, and... the other ones.”

“Whose thoughts?”

Briefly, Patroclus’ eyes widened. His mouth opened and closed a few times, as if he couldn’t find the right words. Eventually, he looked down

“The wolf’s. Or, not exactly. As I said, the wolf and me, we’re one and the same. But human thoughts are rational, empathetic, right?”

“I guess.”

“So the wolf side has its own thoughts. Based on instinct, greed. The longer I’m in my human form, the louder those thoughts get.”

Achilles had a feeling this wasn’t the whole truth.

“Are they good thoughts?”

Patroclus pulled a fish straight from the fire with his bare hands. He sank his teeth in.

“No.”

That night, Achilles went to the library. Patroclus, as usual was sleeping restlessly, and he let out a muffled cry as Achilles padded from their room. He lay curled in on himself, a hand twisted by his face, as if to protect it from the world.

“I would protect you.”

Achilles regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. That’s not what Patroclus wanted. But the other boy only stirred at his words, the hand unfurling ever so slightly in his direction. Achilles left the room.

There was only one scroll on Opus. A lineage dating back several generations. Each name was neatly annotated with information on individual kings: their deeds, offspring, wives. Achilles recognised the name, Menoetius, Patroclus’ father. The son of kings.

The scroll declared he was childless. Achilles moved on.

It was right. Patroclus belonged to Phthia now.

A book of myths told him what he already knew, how Lykos came about. A curse from Apollo, the Lord of Wolves. Achilles scowled at the pages, pushing his hair behind his ears so the light from the candle was less obscured. Everyone knew that story, surely there was something more?

There wasn’t.

He emerged early, before the moon had yet to set, feeling the anger buzzing just below the surface of his skin.

Patroclus was up before he even entered their room.

“What’s wrong? Did you see your mother?”

“Patroclus.” Achilles let the word heave out on his next breath, “we’re going to teach you how to control your wolf.”

Patroclus’ eyes widened.

“But what if-”

“What do we have to lose? If we don’t figure it out now, then one day soon you could be gone for ever.” He stepped forward, as close as he dared, “I can’t lose you Patroclus.”

Under the moon’s gaze they crept out to Achilles’ training yard. It was a private space that even the palace guards weren’t allowed to enter. Patroclus would be safe there.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Achilles ignored the soft questioning in Patroclus’ voice as he drew the bolts across the gate. It would keep wondering eyes out, if anyone was up at this hour. He turned and let the flickering light from the torch fall across his companion’s face. In the torchlight, Patroclus’ features appeared sharpened, the soft curve of his nose bold and straight. He drew a trembling breath. Achilles imagined touching his shoulder, feeling the bare skin warm under his palm, calming the thrumming beat of his pulse.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Patroclus spoke without hesitation, then, “but you shouldn’t trust me.”

“I have trusted you since the first moment I saw you.” Achilles knew he should be scared at how easily the words left his mouth, but he could not. He could never feel scared around Patroclus.

Patroclus raised a hand to cover his eyes and Achilles wished he could brush it away. Let it wrap around his own and clasp it to his chest.

“I don’t- I don’t even know how to do this, it’s been so long. And I know my wolf has grown stronger since last time. I can feel it,” when his eyes met Achilles’ again they were desperate, “Achilles I can feel it inside me, crying to be let out. What if I can’t get it back in?”

“Then we’ll use this.” Achilles grabbed one of the throwing hammers from a rack of weapons. It was heavy in his hands, certainly strong enough to break the bones of a grown man. He didn’t like the idea of hurting Patroclus, but it would be a last resort if he had to knock him out.

Patroclus eyed it warily, but Achilles could see the acceptance slowly starting to set in.

“You should tie me up at least, I don’t know how much control I’ll be able to have.”

Achilles found a sturdy rope behind a stack of practise shields. He didn’t like the idea of tying up Patroclus either. Memories of the first time they met flashed across his mind as he tugged the cord around Patroclus’ chest, securing him to a pillar. At this distance, he could hear the sharp intake of breath with every pull of the rope. He had to force himself to tie the final knot.

“Are you sure about this?” He found himself asking as he stood back. Patroclus glared at him.

“Says you!”

Achilles looked him long and hard in the face. With his eyes, he mapped the curves of his nose, the bones of his jaw, still rounded and soft by childhood. He remembered how thin this face had been not even two years ago. How the bright golden eyes which stared back at him now had been the only glimpse of the boy he had known when they first met, the tanned skin obscured by the muzzle and chains.

This was why it pained him to tie his friend up. Patroclus should be free to run under the sun with him, and free to live as Achilles did, not chained down by the beliefs of others.

He shuddered, burning Patroclus’ face into his mind. Whatever happened, he wouldn’t let Patroclus be taken away from him. Even the wolf side of him could not steal his friend into itself. He clutched the handle of the hammer tighter.

“Okay.” He said.

The last time Patroclus opened his mind to the wolf, he did not remember it. He remembered waking up with a dull ache in his head and the taste of blood still lingering across his tongue. He remembered the instant fear it was Achilles’ blood and the utter relief when the servants answered his desperate questions.

Before that had been when he killed the boy. He didn’t remember that well either.

Both times had been beyond his control. The wolf had taken over not because he let it, but because in his anger he had forgotten the reason and empathy of humanity, and succumbed to the instinct and rage of an animal.

This is what the priests of Apollo had told him anyway.

So now, when he felt nothing but the low thrum of unease, he tried closing his eyes, cutting himself off from the view of Achilles and throwing him into darkness.

He reached inside himself, and called out to the wolf.

It answered with a rushing force, bounding up from the corners of his mind

_We’re here! We’re here! Let us out!_

It had been so long, he barely recognised the sensation that rolled through him as it clambered for attention in his mind.

He breathed, and the salt of Achilles filled his lungs.

He breathed again.

And for some reason, the wolf calmed.

In his mind, the pacing slowed, it lay down and they faced one another. Tentatively, the human reached out its hand, and they touched.

Patroclus screamed. The ropes holding him to the pillar lurched as he threw himself forward, great heaving pant after pant being expelled from his chest.

Panic rose in Achilles. He raced forward, narrowly missing Patroclus head as he bucked against the ropes.

“Patroclus! What’s happening! Are you alright?” He tried to touched his companion but Patroclus flinched away as if burnt.

“Stay away from me.” Achilles barely recognised the words as belonging to Patroclus, they came out as a half murmur, half snarl, human tones layered with another voice, one deeper, more animal than man. Ignoring the flight of his heart against his rib cage, Achilles gripped his shoulders. They were slick with sweat and burning with a feverish heat.

“Patroclus, look at me!”

At the name, his head snapped up and then Achilles saw it was not the face of his dear companion.

The eyes were cold. Cold, and empty, like the depth of a winter night, devoid of stars. He opened his mouth to pant, and it grew wider, opening, stretching back, and Achilles saw his jaw was lined with thickening teeth, pushing themselves through the pink shelves of his gums.

Patroclus screamed again, and this time, there was nothing human in it.

Achilles fell back, his hand grappling in the dark for the hammer where he had dropped it on the ground. Something must have gone wrong. Patroclus had mentioned pain before, but he had emphasised how quick shifting was. Maybe the wolf was even more powerful than they feared? Maybe it had been so long, he had forgotten how to shift and was caught between forms?

His hand, still coated in sweat, slipped on the handle of the hammer. He fell back, feet so normally sure footed shaking under the thumping of his heart. His shoulder hit the ground and pain blossomed down his back. He cursed himself for leaving the torch by the gate.

He heard Patroclus let out one final desperate scream, and nearly screamed in return. Patroclus was in pain, probably in danger and it was all his fault.

He scrambled to his feet, hammer raised and faced Patroclus.

He was gone. The pillar stood empty, a wreath of broken ropes scattered at its base. Achilles took two shallow breaths. He held the hammer higher.

And then he was on the ground. Something slammed against his chest, two immense weights pressing his shoulders against the dust. The night sky rippled above him and a shadow lowered itself over his body.

A wolf, unlike one Achilles had ever known, hunched itself over his body and Achilles felt a gust of hot breath drip against his face. In the flickering torchlight, he saw the flash of white teeth.

He knew he should be afraid. His heart still hammered relentlessly against his rib cage. Blood rushed hot through his ears. But when he looked up, he knew the eyes that stared back at him.

Whatever had seized Patroclus moments before had passed. The eyes which met his were warm.

A soft growl passed from Patroclus as he raised his arm, but he didn’t try to stop him, lowering his head so Achilles could reach to touch the fur of his muzzle. It was soft, the hair finer here, so he could feel the heat of his skin pulsing through. Pushing himself up onto his other arm, Achilles reach higher, his fingers brushing back to skirt under Patroclus’ right eye and sift through the thicker fur at the base of his ears.

“Do you know me?” He asked.

Patroclus blinked. It wasn’t an answer, but Achilles thought he understood.

“Will you let me up?”

Patroclus considered him, his large, golden eyes passing across his face. His nose twitched as if scenting him. With the barest rustle of claws on dry ground, he withdrew, moving only a metre away, to pace around Achilles.

Carefully, Achilles got to his feet, keeping track of every movement of his limbs. Patroclus recognised him, but whether the thoughts that controlled the wolf were those of _his_ Patroclus, he was unsure. He didn’t want to spook him. If he fled, he didn’t like to think what the guards would do.

He didn’t like to think what he would do if anyone laid a hand on Patroclus.

Once he was standing, his legs straightened, he faced the wolf, keeping his body open and relaxed. Patroclus came forward almost immediately, and up close, Achilles realised how big he was. Obviously he had seen him that night at the dinner, but in his mind, he had always assumed he emphasised the wolf’s size, caught up in his fear.

But now Patroclus towered against him, easily larger than the biggest horse in his father’s stables. His fur, in the night, appeared a deep brown, almost black. Patroclus stepped nearer and he noticed how the claws on his feet numbered five, unlike the usual four the palace dogs had.

Soft fur brushed against his cheek, Patroclus pressing his muzzle to nose along his neck. He laughed as the cold nose tickled his ear and brought up his hands to bury them in the deep fur around his neck.

It was odd that the easiest part was getting the wolf to release its claim in Patroclus, allowing the human to return.

They sat together on the wall of the courtyard, watching the sun begin to peak above the sea. A chill wind blew against Achilles’ ankles, a leftover from the last stirrings of winter. He shuddered and admired again how Patroclus didn’t seem to feel the cold.

His friend was looking out across the town, his face cast in a soft white light. He hadn’t said much since fur retreated across his skin, bones cracking and shrinking to form a human body. They had lain together for a long time in the courtyard, Achilles cradling his suddenly fragile body against his chest.

Achilles wanted to ask, what happened? Did I nearly lose you? What made your eyes go so cold and empty, that I did not recognise my dearest companion? And he wondered how it felt to be a wolf, and if Patroclus had known him, or if it had been only lingering memories that had persuaded the wolf to not hurt him.

He remembered how it had butted its head against his chest, rubbing its ears against his face. Actions of companionship. It seemed, whoever controlled the wolf, it trusted him.

He rested his hand on Patroclus’ thigh. Heat still burnt through the thin fabric of the chiton. Patroclus didn’t draw away.

“Thank you.” He said, and Achilles almost laughed at how much he sounded like himself, the voice carrying the gentle, human depth he knew so well.

“For what?”

Patroclus shrugged, and the wind caught a stray curl. He didn’t flinch when Achilles brushed it out of his eyes.

“For trusting me. For seeing me, when the rest of the world saw a monster.”

In that moment, as Achilles let his hand fall from beside Patroclus’ face to his shoulder, he knew he would die for Patroclus. And if Patroclus were to be taken away, even into the depths of the underworld, he would follow without hesitation.

Over the next few weeks they returned to the training yard. They didn’t come every night. At first, Patroclus would become exhausted after only a few minutes in wolf form, collapsing into Achilles arms as soon as he shifted back. On one night, he fell asleep and Achilles had to half carry, half drag him back to their room.

Patroclus became frustrated, even when Achilles reminded him like with a new skill or muscle, it would take time to rebuild. At the same time, Achilles had to build a relationship of trust with the wolf. Patroclus told him he had some control, but when he was a wolf the world appeared as if looking through a warped lens. Everything was twisted and layered with the thoughts and feelings of an animal, rather than a human.

“My wolf does trust you,” he said, “but it will show it in different ways.”

A month later, Achilles realised what he meant.

It was the first time Patroclus had left the training grounds in his wolf form and Achilles was walking along beside him on the beach. The tide was rising, and stray waves would occasionally rise to swirl around their feet. Achilles looked back along the sand at his foot prints, tiny in comparison to the five-toed paw prints of Patroclus. By morning the marks would be gone.

A hot breath rustled his hair and Achilles turned his head to meet Patroclus’ gaze.

“What is it?” Patroclus dipped his head, running his nose to nuzzle against Achilles’ arm, and then he darted forward, the moon shining silver against his back. Achilles jogged after him to keep up.

“Patroclus, don’t got to far!” He shouted. Patroclus’ broad paws allowed him to fly across the sand, whilst Achilles’ narrow feet were built for running on hard, dry earth. He cursed as his foot sank into a sand dune, seashell biting at his toes.

Perhaps Patroclus heard him, because the wolf immediately turned and bounded back, running straight towards him. Achilles tugged his foot out and ran to meet him.

“Patroclus, what is-”

And then he was flying. Or not exactly flying, but being knocked into the air. Patroclus had ducked around behind him at the last second and used the blunt tip of his head to toss him forward. When Achilles landed, it was onto soft, thick fur. The world shrank around him. Below, Patroclus grumbled in delight, and stood up.

Achilles let out a cry, his fingers sinking into the fur. Everything lurched, and then, they were moving forward. Not fast, nothing more than a gentle trot, but Achilles gasped as the thrill of the movement shone through him. He leant forward to rest his chin alongside the wolf’s fluffy ear.

“Patroclus, Patroclus, do you know how amazing you are?”

Patroclus huffed in embarrassment, just as he would as a human when Achilles complimented him. A laugh bubbled out of Achilles.

“I mean it, you really ar-” Patroclus only gave him a final huff as a warning before the world suddenly flew around Achilles, the distant torches of the harbour dissolving into streams of golden light.

* * *

  
  


Today, his son is leaving for the mountains. Peleus watches Achilles ride into the lower courtyard from the great windows of the Main Hall. He has spent the morning racing across the white gold beaches of Phthia. In the courtyard, Achilles dismounts in one fluid motion, his hand already rising to run along the back of his companion. The wolf boy ducks his head to touch Achilles’ forehead and then he too is shifting. The thick brown fur, bronzed under the sunlight, dissolves to reveal human skin and fine, long limbs. The boys laugh together, sharing a joke, or some memory perhaps, and then Achilles slings his arm around the Lykos’ shoulder and they pass into the shadow of the stairwell.

“My king.”

He draws his attention back to the man opposite. Philomenes is his ambassador to Ithaca, the man who has been overseeing the unification of their lands. He returned last night, exhausted by days of hard travel. Now his face is carefully clean shaven and he is back to wearing a heavy white robe in the style of Phthia.

“And the news is the same further south?”

“I’m afraid so, my king. In some kingdoms even, minor civil wars have broken out. Greece is splitting apart.”

Peleus sinks into his chair, rubbing a finger at his temple, “and do we have any idea why this is happening?”

Philomenes looks uncomfortable.

“I wouldn’t like to tell you anything that has no basis in truth.”

Peleus waves a hand wearily.

“Tell me what you know, it will not leave this room.” At his words, the guards stationed at the door silently slip outside.

Philomenes adjusts his robe, fingers running up the fine strip of blue across its edge.

“Well, there are rumours, my king. Rumours that Opus is involved. Of course, Menoetius denies any connection. But you remember that man who tried to kill your own son, not even two years ago. He was of Opus.”

Peleus’ gaze wanders again to the courtyard below. Of course Achilles and the boy were long gone. His hands tighten on his chair.

“Of course there is no basis to these rumours.” Philomenes quickly rushes on, perhaps guessing Peleus’ thoughts. “It is easy to lay blame on Opus. Most men do not see beyond the curse that the god Apollo laid upon it.”

“And what do you think, Philomenes?”

Peleus watches a tiny trail of silver sweat bead on Philomenes’ forehead. It is a hot morning.

“If you want my advice, my king, I would be careful in your dealings with Opus. And those who are associated with it.”

A flock of gulls gather in the courtyard below, picking at the gaps between the tiles in some desperate hope for food. Peleus thinks of the boy. How he had turned up, shackled, a broken thing. Cast out by his father and his country.

_Was he though?_ A tiny thought squeezes its way into his mind, _or was he sent on purpose, to destroy us all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patroclus ‘I’m scared’
> 
> Achilles ‘not to worry, I have a hammer.’
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this little bit of angst, and thank you very much for reading so far!


	6. Thetis's Prophecy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patroclus gets some answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I’m very sorry for the slightly longer wait. School really hit me with a sledgehammer in terms of last minute exams.
> 
> This chapter was originally going to be a bit longer, but I’ve split it in half to signify the end of the first part of the story. I really didn’t expect this part to be so long when I first planned the story, but oh well.
> 
> Thank you so much for all your lovely comments and support, and enjoy!

  
“My mother wants to see you.” Achilles is standing in the doorway.

“Now?”

“Yes.” Achilles face doesn’t give anything away, which is unusual for him. His expressions usually shift as quickly and openly as the clouds. But today the sky is cloudless. It is in his scent Patroclus catches the slightest tinge of worry.

He looks down at the sheets of armour he’s packing into linen scraps. Peleus had said they didn’t need to take much in their stay with Chiron, what they didn’t have, they could make. But he told himself armour couldn’t easily be made from leaves and twigs. It had been a hard won argument. Achilles wanted to travel light. Patroclus had a sneaking suspicion it was because he would be carrying everything in his wolf form.

“I’ll finish that for you.”

“Are you sure you know how?”

Achilles’ glare only lasted a heartbeat before he was tackling Patroclus to the ground. Patroclus didn’t hesitate to punch him in the stomach, ducking under a fist to escape out of the door. Achilles’ laughs followed him down to the sea.

Thetis is not on the harbour, or the thin strip of beach they rode across this morning. Patroclus knows from Achilles, from words said in fragmented grasps of her life, that she stays as far from the palace as possible, lingering only on the furthest reaches of the coast to speak with her son.

In the early mornings, a sprawling fish market sprouts up in the lower town and Patroclus has to skip to dodge a great crate of black fish. The woman carrying it sputters out an apology, her broad arms tightening around the crate. Patroclus pauses to see if she needs help, but the woman is already bustling away.

In the past year, as Patroclus has grown into his position as Achilles’ companion, rather than his serving boy, the people in Phthia have begun to look at him ever more not down the lengths of their noses, but with the contemptuous awe and bitter jealousy of fear.

He does not mind anymore. He has grown used to it.

His legs take him round the final bend in the stalls and Patroclus is racing out along the harbour wall, cold clean air biting at his limbs. Briefly, he pauses to look up at the kingdom, the palace a pale gem at its centre, rising against the opaque blue of the sky. This is his home now. At first he had spent sleepless nights clinging to the memories of Opus, with its stark halls and large open fires. The rocky ground which used to slice open the bare soles of his feet when he ran across it. Phthia’s ground is soft, even the earth is crumbly with fine golden sand.

And, even with its large fires, he thinks Opus would be cold without the flame of Achilles.

His wolf grumbles in agreement at that, slumbering gently in his mind after their run this morning. Patroclus stands for a moment longer, waiting for another voice to make itself known. His hands curl into fists, trapping in the heat against the wind. After five heart beats, he releases the air from his chest.

It has been almost a year since he last heard the demon voices. The whispered, terrifying undertones to his thoughts. The real impact of Apollos’ curse.

Where they had gone, he didn’t know. On the edges of his thoughts he considered asking Chiron about it. The wise centaur was said to be as old as the gods, he had probably spoken with Apollo, and if anyone knew about Lykos, it would be him.

Patroclus finds the corner of the beach where he knew Thetis would be waiting. The sand is darker here, threaded with the crushed jewels of sea shells. As he steps forward and feels them bite into his feet, the flash of a dream crosses his mind.

Thetis standing in the night black sea. The red curl of her mouth. Fingers like ice trailing along the collar. Patroclus’ hand darts across the scars. It must have been her doing that broke it. Two years ago, she had listened to her son’s begs and set him free.

Now, she watches him as he approaches. She is sitting on a black outcrop of rock, narrow fingers tapping against the stone. In real life, she is no smaller or less threatening than he remembers from the dream and the eyes that meet his are as pale and bottomless as a clear mountain pool.

“You took your time, child.”

Patroclus bows, her immortal gaze somehow even more threatening than Achilles’ other parent. His wolf stirs inside him, unhappy at the submissive pose, and Patroclus tries puffing himself up a little to placate it.

“My lady, you asked to speak with me.” He’s suddenly reminded of the meeting he held with Peleus two years ago. The air there had been dusty and stained warm with the sun, the great pillars of the hall oppressive as Peleus reminded him of the dangers he posed to Achilles.

Heracles’ madness, and how it drove him to kill those he loved. Peleus understood the curse of the Lykos. Patroclus had tried explaining it to Achilles, though he hadn’t listened. Perhaps he hadn’t understood.”

“You’re shaking, child. Do I scare you?” He heard the rustle of cloth against stone and her shadow fell across him. “Look up.”

He did.

Thetis’ face hung a breath from his. Up close, he could see the tiny gathering of scales around her eyes. Salt, with the pungency of rotting fish sinks through his nose, but when she speaks no air blows against his face.

“The collar- it left scars.”

Thetis reaches out a hand and carefully holds his chin, turning it to look at his neck. Her fingers are cold, but not with the iciness he remembered from his dream. They are cool, but warm enough for Patroclus to believe warm blood pumps beneath the skin.

“Why did you do it?” His question stutters out, breathless in her grasp.

Thetis stares at him for a second, before her lips curl in a smile. She withdraws to stand far away enough that the smell of salt is no longer so overpowering.

“My child, I did nothing. Nothing to do with breaking your collar anyway.” She rests a pointed chin on her palm, “any action I took was just to throw my husband off the trail.”

“But the collar,” Patroclus takes a sharp breath and remembers how it used to tighten around his neck, controlling even his breathing, “it’s made to be unbreakable.”

“It certainly is.” Thetis turns her head, “but I’m sure you’ve realised how little humans understand about Lykos. Collars like one you wore are made to be physically difficult to break. You can’t shift into wolf form without strangling yourself. I’m sure you’ve heard how in Ithaca they use this as a form of execution.”

Patroclus focuses on keeping his face neutral. He knew little about the island of Ithaca. He had heard, in muttered fragments, how there is an elite faction of Lykos they keep. If he had gone with Odysseus two years ago, he may have joined them.

Execution though- that, he has not heard.

“There are ways of forcing someone into wolf form?” The thought is terrifying. Patroclus’ youth was formed from fears of being consumed by his wolf. But even then, the shift would be under the control of his wolf, a part of him. That an outsider, a human, could force him into becoming a wolf was something he had never considered before.

“Yes, my child, as with all things there are ways.” She sighs, “man will always try to control you for who you are. They will try to manipulate you and chain you to their will.” Her left hand ghosts across her arm, “now, listen closely. Protect yourself like I could not.”

For a second, Thetis’ eyes flash, glimmering against the mid-morning sun. Her mouth grows very tight, lips spreading thin against her teeth. The she passes a hand across her face. When the hand drops, her expression could have been carved from ice.

“Some people believe the scent of burning laurel is enough to draw out your wolf, because it is the sacred plant of Apollo. This is a myth of course. As is drinking crushed flower petals and wine. You will not be affected by this. Further north, they will tell you the full moon is when Lykos go mad. If you were there, they would lock you up once a month, no matter what you tell them.”

“So what is it?”

“In Ithaca, capital punishment for Lykos is for the crimes of murder. If a Lykos kills a human man, they will kill his friend, or his children. If he has been allowed to marry, his wife. He will then be held down and fed their flesh until his wolf consumes him.”

Patroclus stares at her.

“It is human flesh, my child.”

This time Patroclus cannot stop his eyes from widening. He stares down at the sand, his gaze fixing on a tiny swirl of crushed mussel shells.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“There is a prophecy, child. And I know of it because I was involved in its making. You and Achilles are linked. From the moment you met eyes three years ago, your fates became intertwined. Though even before that, they ran along the same path. I can see some distance into your future together, so I say this not to protect you, but my son. It is your destiny to protect him.”

Patroclus is beginning to notice a theme here in his talks with Achilles’ parents. His own father would never have said anything along the lines of ‘protect Patroclus’. He had named Patroclus to honour him, as an extension of himself, never seen him as a son that needed care or love. And his mother-

His hands dig into the sand. He had never known what she was thinking.

Thetis rises, and now she towers over him. The sea cracks against the cliffs, and he sees the same power in her face. It is time to go.

But yet-

“My collar, if it wasn’t you, how did it break? Why wasn’t I strangled?”

For a second, the face of the goddess softens.

“Men always overlook the strength of love in their designs.” And then her eyes truly meet his for the first time. Now the depth in her eyes does not seem bottomless, but ancient. An ancient being strapped to the whims of human concerns. She understands as well as him what it is like to be chained under Peleus’ orders.

Another emotion passes across her face. It isn’t quite guilt, but there is a sadness, resignation. Patroclus’ heart clutches tighter in his chest. What did Thetis see in his future?

As he walks back to the palace, the wind that nips at his limbs is no longer playful, but cold. His stomach feels solid and heavy. Thetis had looked him with the eyes of an executioner before a lamb.

If he was a sacrifice, who was it for?

_Achilles_. Patroclus knew the answer before the question was even half-formed in his mind. Perhaps he had always known it. In his mind’s eye, he saw the warm green of Achilles’ eyes in the strewn seaweed on the beach. The gold of his hair woven through the sand and the white flash of his teeth in the sea form rolling against the coast. But more than that. The way his gums didn’t quite show when he smiled. The tiny silver scar curled around the base of his thumb from where a knife slipped as they carved arrows out of twigs. The feather light spread of freckles across his nose when the sun burnt its brightest.

Yes, he would protect Achilles. Again, he would know the answer in his dreams. But he wouldn’t do it for Peleus, or Thetis, or all the gods.

Thetis had said breaking the collar was his own doing. Well, so was this.

  
  


They leave as soon as Patroclus returns to the palace. Achilles is hopping by the gate, ignoring the desperate pleas of the guard.

“I have sworn I will not see my father one more time before we go.” He tells Patroclus after he rushes forward to greet him.

For the first time, Patroclus sees the familiar point of Achilles’ jaw and thinks of Thetis. He shakes her image from his mind.

“Did something happen?”

Achilles stills for a second, before a laugh is tumbling out of his mouth.

“Nothing you need to worry about.” His hand claps on his shoulder and Patroclus lets himself enjoy the simple familiarity of human contact. “Just my father thinking he knows what’s best. He was in quite a rage when I left, so I think it is best if we leave now.”

“But the armour-”

Achilles waves a hand, “forget it, anything we need, we’ll make.”

“That sounds like the words of someone who couldn’t pack their own armour properly.”

“Maybe only because their fool of a friend made a mess of it.”

“It is little more than wrapping metal in cloth.”

Achilles groans, wrapping his arms around Patroclus’ shoulders to drag him towards the road.

“We’re wasting time, let us just leave before my father arrives.”

The guards behind Achilles step forward.

“My prince, the king has asked that you wait before you go. He has words to share-”

Achilles clapped his hands over his ears, “well I don’t want to hear them. Patroclus, let’s go.”

Patroclus watches the guards’ hands move to their spears. Deep inside, his wolf stirs from its slumber. It is time to go.

The guards leap back, one letting out a cry as the scrawny boy beside the prince is suddenly a snarling beast, each individual tooth as large as their iron spearheads. Achilles let’s out a whoop and the wolf lowers itself to allow him to leap up onto its broad back. It shakes its head, brown fur rippling gold under the sun, and then bounds down the road, heading towards the mountains.

The years they spend with Chiron are some of the best of Achilles’ life. The centaur doesn’t even blink when he appears astride a giant wolf, but greets them with two bows, one to Achilles, and one to Patroclus. His hair is dark and curled like Patroclus’ own and the eyes that soften at their approach are the same warm brown. Achilles knows he can trust him.

As he slides off Patroclus’ back, the wolf dips his head. He is not quite as big as Chiron, though his shoulder reaches the horse chest of Chiron’s body. In one fluid motion, his body dissolves into itself, the fur receding and bones cracking into human shape. Achilles has to force himself not to look away. Not because it’s exactly an unpleasant sight, but he knows how much pain the brief change can put Patroclus through. He claims it has got better recently, and Achilles wants to believe him. But that doesn’t explain the way his face twists up for the briefest moment after every shift.

It doesn’t make sense. Why should such a fundamental part of Patroclus cause so much pain? Achilles refuses to believe the priests who say Lykos are a curse, that any part of Patroclus could be wrong, or bad.

Chiron tells them the journey ahead is still long, and invites them up onto his own back. Patroclus looks at him and Achilles can see the weariness in his eyes. They have been riding hard all afternoon. Guilt flits through Achilles’ mind. He knew Patroclus would disagree, but sometimes he wonders if he is but another burden on his companion’s narrow shoulders.

They clamber onto Chiron, Achilles cupping his hands to help lift Patroclus up onto the broad back. It’s been so long since Achilles has ridden a horse, he’s momentarily stunned at how smooth the hair beneath him is, too short for him to cling onto. He wraps his arms around Patroclus instead and rests his chin on his shoulder to blow puffs of breath into his ear.

Patroclus squirms and turns his face to lightly head butt him in return.

The journey is long and soon Patroclus’s head is nodding forward. Chiron only responds to Achilles” questions in vague, monosyllabic answers, so soon Achilles finds himself drifting off into his own thoughts.

His father’s voice echoes in his head. Of course Achilles had refused to listen to him. Achilles is on the brink of adulthood now, his father has no right to tell him what to do, who to trust. His hand curls against Patroclus’ skin where it rests beside his ribs. He can hear the soft thump of his heart, slowed in his sleep and lets Patroclus’ head tilt back to rest on his own shoulder.

Still, there was one thing his father had said that clings stubbornly to the front of his mind. The promise he owed to Odysseus. The King of Ithaca had yet to make true on the deal, though it made sense since Greece was not at war. Not yet, anyway. Achilles didn’t pay much attention to the treaties and diplomacy side of ruling Phthia, but even he had overheard his father’s meetings with his lead advisors about the rising tensions across the land. Kingdoms had turned on kingdoms, minor civil wars had broken out in some areas.

And his father blamed it on-

The world around them is quiet but for the soft thump of Chiron’s hooves against wet earth. The summer rains came early this year. A good omen, some priests had said. A bad sign, said others. In Achilles’ opinion, more proof the priests didn’t know what they were talking about half the time.

He holds Patroclus closer.

_Stay by me, I will protect you. Even if the whole world turns against you and thinks you are cursed, I will never let anything happen to you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least somebody is looking out for Patroclus :(


	7. Chiron’s Prophecy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patroclus gets a few more answers, Peleus worries about his son and Achilles is in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya folks! No, I am not dead, but I made a last minute decision to not split this chapter in half and wrote the whole thing in one.
> 
> Patroclus and Achilles relationship is established from this point on. I decided to skip their ‘first kiss’ because the development of their relationship in this story is not going to be focused solely on their romance (I’m sorry for any anguish this may cause!)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy, warnings for mentions of blood and gore.

Sun falls across his face. Patroclus narrows his eyes and the light blurs above him, dappling amongst the dark blotches of leaves. He breaths in and lets the warm air fill his rib cage, expanding outwards until his body floats upwards. The cool water of the pool flows between his fingers as he raises a hand to drag against his hair. He releases his breath, and sinks deeper into the pool, sustained only by his head resting against the bank.

A hand tangles with the fingers in his hair. A callused thumb brushes along his palm and the light above him is covered by an even brighter smile.

“Achilles...”

Achilles’ smile softens. His head dips lower and then slim hands are bringing Patroclus’ head up to rest on his knees. His hair has grown longer in the three years of their stay on the mountain, and now it is slung up in a loose bun, tied with knotted goat’s gut. His skin glimmers with sweat in the heavy summer heat.

“Are you going to join me?” Patroclus lets the words trip lazily out of his mouth. This was a day for relaxing. The heat has pushed all life on the mountain into shade or cooler waters. Even Chiron has had to surrender under the beating sun and is passing the midday in his cave.

“In a minute.” A few stray locks of hair have escaped from the knot of Achilles’ hair. They glisten white gold in the sun. Patroclus raises a hand and tucks them behind his ear. His hand lingers there and Achilles frees his own hand to press it against his cheek. Patroclus locks onto his gaze.

“I’m going to wash your hair first.”

That’s when Patroclus notices the clay bowl Achilles has brought with him. A chunk of the pig fat soap they made lies beside it. It’s smelly stuff, even when Achilles tried mixing it with olive oil and herbs, and its even worse with his Lykos sense of smell. The wolf keeps urging him to eat it.

He settles back against Achilles legs. “Alright.”

Achilles’ hands are gentle as he dips the bowl in the water and tips it over his hair. The water tickles against his back anyway, and he squirms.

“Careful.”

Achilles pokes the back of his neck and Patroclus lets out a yelp.

“Achilles!”

“I’m being careful.” Patroclus narrows his eyes as Achilles’ lips tilt into a sly smile.

Once his hair is wet, Achilles dips his hands in the pool and then lathers his fingers in the soap until it bubbles up between his hands. The digits that then sink into Patroclus’ hair are soft. They press in circles at the patches behind his his ears. Patroclus’ eyes flutter closed. Above the scent of the pig fat, his wolf calms at the sweet saltiness of Achilles’ scent. It has grown earthier since they came to the mountain, steeped in the sage that lines the rocky banks. But the saltiness of the sea air has clung to him throughout. It was a scent Patroclus once hated. It reminded him of the long trip by sea to Phthia all those years ago. Then, the scent of salt had been mixed with rotting fish, the stench of men and vomit and death. Salt had clung to his own skin like smoke, and he remembered trying to rub himself against the cell walls during his confinement to try and remove it.

The smell of salt was Patroclus’ first opening to a world of banishment and the growing realisation he would never return to the rocky hills of Opus, where men smelt of drying grass and sand. Smoke and earth.

But on Achilles, salt is the scent of freedom. A gull’s open wing, air skimming across great expanses of water on a spring morning. The smell of Achilles is the smell of home.

Achilles’ smooths his hand across Patroclus’ hair, bringing it together to form a spike on top his head. He looks down at him and giggles.

“You look so silly.”

“Says the immature one.”

“Says the old man.” Achilles scrunches his nose up as he says this and dips his head even lower to rub noses with Patroclus. And then his head is darting forward and stealing a chaste kiss from his lips. Patroclus tugs against his hold, trying to follow after, but Achilles is reaching forward with the bowl to rinse his hair.

“One more.”

“Hm, could you be a little more polite, Patroclus.” Achilles pauses with the bowl held just above him, hand ready to tip. A few drips spill over the rim and splash against Patroclus’ lips. He smirks as Achilles’ eyes follow them. There’s a hunger in those green eyes.

“One more, please.”

Achilles grins and lowers his head again, sinking against Patroclus in another kiss. He withdraws with a peck on the end of his nose. Then the cool water from the bowl is running through Patroclus’ hair, rinsing the bubbles out and down his bare shoulders. Achilles continues to lightly massage his head.

They sit like this in contented silence for a few minutes. Patroclus’ keen ears pick out the pad of a wild cat in the undergrowth. Above it are the call of songbirds, invisible against the trees. Achilles’ hands pause against his scalp. His blunt nails dig in very slightly against the skin. Patroclus’ wolf purrs in contentment.

“Patroclus?”

Patroclus nuzzles back into his hands. “Hm?”

“What is going to happen to us?”

“What do you mean?” When Patroclus opens his eyes, Achilles isn’t looking at him, but staring out across the woods. His lips are pressed together, in the way he does when he’s nervous.

“I mean, once we go back. I mean to Phthia. In the future. When we left, my father talked to me,” briefly Patroclus remembers Achilles’ panic to leave. He had never asked what Peleus had told him, “my father said he thought war was on the horizon. He said other things...” Achilles trailed off and then shook his head, “it doesn’t matter. But I’m worried about what will happen to us. I- I don’t think I will be able to stay out of this war.”

Patroclus looks at him for a long time, tracing the worry lines between his brows. He’s not sure what to say. Patroclus is usually the worrier out of the two of them. Achilles was born with the god-like confidence of a king, he rarely doubts his decisions, has never doubted, or feared what the fates hold for him. He is blessed. It is not something someone like Achilles should have to worry about. Patroclus’s hand, resting against Achilles’ thigh, lightly traces the corded muscles under the skin.

“Achilles, do not talk of the future like you will be alone. If there is a war ahead of you, it is also ahead of me. Don’t think you can get rid of me that easily.”

Achilles scoffs fondly. His hand ruffles Patroclus’ still damp hair, “you know that is not what I meant. I want you to be safe, Patroclus. You have already faced so much hardship in this life, I don’t want to share my own burdens with you.”

“Hm, well I’m not sure I’m going to let you have the choice.”

“Patroclus, I am serious.”

“So am I.”

Achilles hands come up to cup his cheeks. His thumbs swipe along the bones of his jaw. He kisses Patroclus again, slower this time, deeper. Patroclus lets a contented hum purr from his chest.

“Why are you thinking about this now?”

Achilles shrugs, “we will not stay on this mountain forever. At some point we will have to go back.” A light smile flashes across his face, “or we could just stay here, I’m sure Chiron would not mind.”

“Achilles.” Though even as Patroclus lets disapproval seep into his tone, his wolf stirs within him. The wolf who knows no reason or understanding, it urges him to create a den on this mountain, with Achilles at his side. To fight anyone who would try and take them away.

Foolish thoughts. Patroclus shakes his head. The water is suddenly too cold.

“Do you want to go for a hunt?” His wolf perks up at that.

Achilles grins, and reaches out a hand to help him out of the water.

With Chiron’s help, they had managed to create a saddle of sorts for Patroclus’ wolf. It was made of moulded and hardened hide, stiff enough to withstand Patroclus’ movements, but light and simple enough that it was hardly a burden beside Achilles. Unlike a horse, wolves run in fluid, loping motions, so the saddle has been designed accordingly for the excess stresses that might be put on it, and was secured around the front of Patroclus’ chest as well as with a band under his rib cage. Reins of the sort that might be used on a horse were never even considered, Achilles didn’t need them.

The hot sun of the last few weeks has dried up the usual wandering streams and shallow pools of the mountain top, so Achilles knows most of the prey will be gathered around the larger rivers further north. Patroclus moves slow beneath him, his nose pressed to the ground. The air is still but for the faint sound of the wolf panting. Thick saliva drips from his mouth. Achilles leans forward to pat his shoulder.

“Do you need a drink, Patroclus?” He asks.

But then the wolf’s head is shooting up. He lets out a sharp bark, and that is Achilles’ only warning before they are bounding forwards towards a clearing up ahead. Achilles grips the front of the saddle, curling his fingers around the worn leather. With his other hand he raises his spear. It is a simple one, made by himself when they first arrived. He will need to make more before they leave.

Patroclus clears a fallen tree and they skid into an opening amongst the trees. A couple of young deer shriek at their approach, tripping over in their hurry to escape. Patroclus bounds forward again, and Achilles uses the momentum to throw himself off his back, hurling the spear forward. It hits the lead deer with a soft thump and the creature collapses to the ground, the spear pinning down its dappled flank. Achilles hits the ground in a crouch and runs quickly to the deer, knife already in hand. It’s whimpering, it’s back legs kicking weakly. Keeping away from its cloven hooves, Achilles squats beside the creatures neck and lays a comforting hand on the shoulder. He murmurs a prayer of thanks to Artemis, and then cuts the creature’s neck in one swift blow. Its round black eyes glisten once against the sky, and then it lies still.

Achilles wipes the blood from his knife against the grass and straightens up. The clearing is empty.

“Patroclus?” Bird calls answer his shout. He looks around. The branches in the thicket to his right are cracked, as if a large animal had forced its way through. Achilles quickly binds the deer’s feet together and then pushes his way through the undergrowth, slashing at the spiny bushes with his spear.

It doesn’t take long to find Patroclus. The wolf is delivering the killing blow to a second deer as Achilles enters the new clearing, on the edge of a dried river bank. Patroclus had obviously chased the deer into the river. With no water to catch them, one of the deer had stumbled and broken its leg. The other must have escaped. Achilles peers down into the empty gully.

“Alright, Patroclus?” The wolf raises his head. The dark fur on his chest is stained black. Blood drips from his lolling tongue. A blink later, and he is a boy again. Achilles pushes his spear into the earth and uses it to swing down into the gully.

“What about the other deer, Patroclus? Did you let it go?” He goes to swing an arm around his companion’s shoulders, but Patroclus ducks away from his hand. His eyes are wide.

“Patroclus? I didn’t mean it, it doesn’t matter, we have plenty of meat with these two.”

“No, no, it’s not-” Patroclus is staring at him. His hands are shaking. It take Achilles a moment to realise he’s not looking at him, but through him. Patroclus’ deep brown eyes are staring vacantly into the distance. The muscles on his chest have tensed to the point Achilles is starting to feel worried.

“Patroclus...”

But then the moment has passed. Patroclus shakes his head and a smile fleetingly forces its way onto his face.

“It’s nothing, I’m fine. It must just be the heat.”

Achilles nods and helps him tie up the deer to drag back to Chiron’s cave. He doesn’t ask if Patroclus will return to his wolf form for their journey back. He has long learnt to not believe Patroclus when he gives these excuses. He doesn’t know what to do when Patroclus has ‘incidents’ like that. They happen rarely these days, in fact, Achilles doesn’t think he’s had an incident since they came to the mountain.

For now, he thinks, all he can do is support Patroclus.

* * *

“Are you sure it was the Trojan?”

“Paris? That cowardly, snivelling, girl of a man?” Menelaus slams his fist against the table. “Absolutely.”

Odysseus shares a glance with Peleus. They are two of several kings and leaders around the grand table in Sparta’s central hall. Young men and women in clean white robes filter between the columns lining the walls, carrying jugs of wine and plates of olives and meat. On the walls are displayed great broad handled swords, spears and shields, symbols of Sparta’s conquests in battle. A life size statue of Athena stands tall on a marble plinth. Light from the Sun pours through a circular window opposite to illuminate her face.

Yet all the pomp and grandeur does little to hide the fact half the chairs around the table are empty. Obviously, the King of Opus is not present, but a number of smaller kingdoms have not taken up their seats as well. Peleus sighs internally, and rubs a finger against his temple. Greece is cracking.

“Is it true, the rumours?” It’s a minor lord from a land west of Phthia. Until last year they had been ruled by a king, but a civil war had broken out and the king had been deposed. This was his replacement.

Peleus remembered the reports when his ambassadors had returned. Whisperings of assassinations, black mail, men being framed for their children’s murders. It was the same story all across Greece.

Menelaus snarls at the lord, who only raises an eyebrow. Peleus internally sighs again. Even discipline seems to be vanishing these days. It doesn’t help that Menelaus is throwing a tantrum over his wife disappearing. Peleus can’t even remember the last time he saw his own wife.

“Rumours? What rumours?” A young prince mumbles beside him. Peleus bites his tongue. Odysseus has told him half the story in the letter inviting him to the meeting. How Paris, the prince of distant Troy, had been given, as a gift from the goddess Aphrodite, the most beautiful woman in the world as his wife. It was a pity that woman seemed to be Helen. Peleus couldn’t have cared less if Thetis had been that woman.

So here they are, the great kings of Greece, the most civilised land the gods had made, gossiping over someone’s wife as their own country crumbled around them. Across from him, Odysseus seems to be thinking the same thing. His mouth is set in a hard line. Helen is related to his own wife, Penelope. It is probably the only reason he has bothered to come such a great distance.

Agamemnon, lounging besides his brother roars for silence at the prince, but this only makes things worse. Around the room, lords, princes, kings, get to their feet, some asking after the rumours, others turning on them to mind their own business. Agamemnon, ever the pacifist, shoulders his way towards the original lord, face red. Menelaus stands at the head of the table, shouting for calm, before he eventually sinks into his chair, a hand over his face.

Peleus raps his fingers against the arms of his own chair and considers walking out. He could probably come back in an hour and things would be the same. Nobody would probably even notice he was gone. Have things always been this way? Perhaps he is too old for these kinds of meetings now. Every morning it seems he wakes to a new line on his face.

These thoughts lead to his son, as they always do. It has been three, nearly four years since Achilles left to grow under the guidance of Chiron. Regret stabs in his gut, as it always does when he thinks how they parted. Peleus shunned, his son around the little finger of the wolf boy. Peleus’ gaze drifts towards the empty seat of Menoetius.

There were different rumours, weaker than the one about Helen’s disappearance, of the supposed assassin’s tearing Greece apart. Men with claws, dog ears, blood red eyes, lurking in the shadows. Men who could smell your sweat from half a mile a way and know if you were feeling joyful or sad.

If they are connected to the leadership of Opus, it would explain Menoetius’ absence. But Peleus is sceptical of this theory. Menoetius has nothing to gain from using Lykos to bring down Greece. Opus is a part of Greece and flourishes under its wealth and protection, just as Phthia does. And anyway, even if he does have something to gain, using Lykos would only draw unwanted attention to Opus, since the two are inextricably linked. Ithaca of course has its elite army of Lykos soldiers, but Odysseus too has nothing to gain if Greece falls.

The shouting rises to a din. One minor noble grabs a jug of wine as it is carried past and goes to smash it against his opponent’s head. Fortunately Odysseus stands nearby and grabs the man’s arm just in time. He rips the jug from his hand and smashes it against the floor.

The sound has everyone in the hall turning to stare at him. Silence falls to hushed whispers. Peleus notices how Agamemnon’s face burns. People always mutter that whilst Menelaus and his brother may rule the biggest Kingdoms in Greece, it is Odysseus who commands the minds of their men. It seems the murmurs are true, and Agamemnon knows it.

“Look at us.” Odysseus speaks in a low voice, but the undercurrents to his words vibrate throughout the hall, “kings, leaders, men.” He glares around at them, piercing eyes shining out beneath jutting brows, “is this the best Greece has to offer?”

Mutters purr across the hall. A few people shake their heads, beards trembling in their passion.

“So when our people wake up tomorrow morning, and see their homes burnt, cattle slaughtered, children and wives stolen, will they think, well,” and he takes on a jaunty tone here, “at least our leaders are safe?”

More mutters.

“No, they won’t!” Odysseus stamps his foot in the shattered jug, “because, friends, let me tell you this: our people do not care about us! Who we are, or how are families are doing. Maybe they will want to know which gods we pray to, who we sacrifice our prize lambs to. But what our people want, is stability. Income, food on the table, safety. And can they do that, if the lands they wake up to tomorrow are in the hands of barbarians?”

Agamemnon’s voice raises above the cries of no, “your point, King of Ithaca?”

Odysseus’ laugh is sharp. It chills Peleus’ bones. “My point, oh noble Agamemnon, is that squabbling over rumours will get us nowhere. Troy has taken Menelaus’ wife, and Greece is on the verge of collapse. I see a solution which will not only get her back, but save these lands our people depend on so much.”

“And what is that?” Menelaus this time, a burly hand on his sword.

“The solution, my friends is a war.”

Silence envelopes the hall. Even the murmurings of the nobles has died out into stares of disbelief.

Agamemnon sits forward, his lower jaw jutted out.

“And how can you be so confident, oh noble Odysseus, this war won’t drive Greece further into disarray? A siege on Troy could cost us a kingdom full of gold. Not to mention the men.”

“Perhaps, perhaps in years past.” Odysseus’ flicks his gaze in Peleus’ direction, and his heart sinks in his chest.

_No, surely not._

“But I happen to know there is a boy, no, a man, who will ride amongst our men, a man unbeatable even by the gods themselves.”

The gaze of other kings follows his. Recognition flashes in Menelaus’ eyes as they land on Peleus.

“Surely not, Achilles is but a child.”

“No, not anymore.” Peleus hates the words that leave his own mouth, but even as he speaks, he cannot dampen the pride stirring in his heart. Achilles would be sixteen, almost seventeen now, beyond a man in his own right. Strong enough to lead a whole army of men. “My son is a warrior.”

“But even so, what difference can one man make?”

“Two men.” Odysseus says, “we cannot forget his companion, Patroclus.”

If the name means anything to the men present, they do not speak. Peleus himself tries to mask the horror curling its way through his chest.

Agamemnon stands. His face has paled to a pink sheen, but Peleus can see the plan working its way out behind his watery eyes. Buried beneath his beard, a sly grin is emerging. He is already seeing the benefits a siege on Troy would bring him.

“Very well, Odysseus. You will have your war, and dear brother,” he turns to Menelaus, “you will have your wife. We will not let these Trojans take our women, Greek women, into their seething Trojan holes. And when we attack, we will do so with the very fury of the gods at our backs until they bow before our feet!”

His voice echoes against a chamber of roars. Cheers are followed by calls for meat, wine. Glasses are refilled, servants scuttle back into the halls with jugs over flowing. Laughter comes, chants, songs, the beginnings of plans. A war to bring Greece together, to tear Troy apart. A common enemy to distract them from their own internal struggle.

Peleus meets Odysseus’ gaze as he slips beside him in the hall. He raises honeyed wine to his lips. He knows he cannot share in the revelry of his companions.

“It looks like your son will be able to fulfil your half of the bargain after all, King Peleus.” Odysseus says. His face is bright, but his words do not slur as if he is drunk. Peleus smells no alcohol on his breath.

_You did this on purpose, you know what he is to me, what I think of his companion. The rumours of Opus._

He takes another sip of his wine to swallow his words. Odysseus slaps him on the shoulder and saunters away. Peleus tries to follow him with his eyes, but the purple robe soon slips amongst the crowd and he vanishes from view.

Peleus downs the rest of his drink and tries not to think of tomorrow.

  
  


* * *

Tonight the air is still. Chiron tells them to start the fire outside. Beneath the cavern of the sky, he will tell them the stories of the stars. Patroclus watches him across the embers as he talks, and sees the age etched into the corners of his eyes. He wonders if he was alive back then, to see these stories for themselves.

_Will I too, grow old? Will I ever look in a mirror and see the journey of my years on my face, silver in my hair?_

His gaze flickers down to where Achilles has his head leant against his thigh. His eyes are closed, lashes dusting the edges of his cheeks.

_Will I grow old beside you?_

He tries to ignore the way his heart aches when he realises the answer will be no.

There is no future where they will live together, he is certain. If the fates do not see to it, Achilles’ father will.

_Humans will always try and tear us apart._

Patroclus tries not to tense up. There it is, that voice again. Why now? After so long? And earlier. His stomach clenches, bile rolling deep in his gut.

Achilles stirs at his feet. One of his hands has shifted to curl loosely around his ankle. It’s sits there, warm and steady, it’s owner deep asleep, lulled by the crackle of the fire.

“Chiron.” Patroclus’ voice breaks against the silence, “what do you know about me?”

Chiron’s ancient eyes soften. His hands still from where they have been whittling a narrow spear handle.

“Which part of you, Patroclus?”

It wasn’t the answer Patroclus had been expecting.

“I guess, just the Lykos part for now.”

“What do I know about Lykos?” Chiron runs his thumb over the roughened handle, “I have heard many stories of your kind. Lykos are ancient creatures, as you know, almost as old as the gods.”

“We were created by the gods.”

“As were we all.”

“Yes, but humans weren’t created to be a curse.”

Chiron tilts his head at Patroclus. The light from the flames lick across his base chest.

“A curse? Yes, that is what humans believe it seems.” He returns to his spear, “and of course, when it comes to the gods, belief is half the battle.”

Patroclus decides not to unpick that response now. He had other questions to ask.

“Do you know anything about voices, I mean specifically for Lykos?”

“Voices?”

“Not ones out loud, but more inside your head. Not a subconscious voice. Or maybe, maybe like that.” Patroclus focuses on the feeling of Achilles’ hand against his ankle, he is the one good with words, “I mean it sounds like somebody speaking inside my head, but it’s not me. At least I don’t think it is, because I would never hurt- never hurt someone.”

“And they tell you to hurt people?” Chiron glances down at Achilles, “hurt him?”

“Sometimes.” Patroclus hates the defeat in his voice, but there is no point in lying. He thinks Chiron would see through it anyway. “The priests in Opus told me they were the instinctual part of my wolf. But that’s still a part of me. Achilles is my- my closest friend, why would I ever have thoughts about harming him?”

The thoughts weren’t just about hurting Achilles though. Not recently. In some ways, Patroclus wants to to return to the days when that was all it was. Those thoughts were at least directed at everyone. But today, in the gully, the thoughts were darker.

“ _Take him, claim him,”_ they had whispered, “ _you heard what he said, the humans will try to separate us, so let them know he is yours.”_

And the worst part is, Patroclus knows that if Achilles had touched him then, he would have gone through with it.

That isn’t me. I’m not like that. He had whispered this as a mantra in his head at night back in Phthia. When the thoughts told him to kill Achilles. Now, he’s not so sure. How different is he from those thoughts? Is this what he really wants? Deep down in some dark corner of his heart?

Chiron’s brows are furrowed.

“And when you are a wolf, how similar are your thoughts to your human ones?”

Patroclus has explained this to Achilles before. Like his human ones, but warped. Bolder, more instinctual, held to an undercurrent of burning energy of the kind he only ever sees in Achilles’ eyes.

He explains this to Chiron.

“So, when do you hear these thoughts? The bad ones?”

“When I’m tired, if I spend too long as a human. Or a wolf. When I kill, whenever my emotions are too high to control them.” Patroclus has kept a list, carefully organised in his head. All of it boiled down to when he had less control. When he was younger, and learning to shift into wolf form again. Now, when he is older, and it seems his wolf has grown stronger yet again. One day, will it grow to strong for him to cope? Will he succumb to its call and forget his human self. These had been his early fears when Achilles first tried to convince him back into wolf form. He hasn’t worried about these issues in years. The familiar sickening of worry in his gut is back.

“Patroclus,” Chiron’s deep voice wrenches him back into the cool night air. The fire crackles warm between them. He feels the burn of its heat against his face. “You are a Lykos, not a human. But nor are you a wolf. It is your burden to carry both of these souls within you, one body for two beings. Whether these thoughts are your own, or entirely separate, they hold only a tiny part of who you are as a person.” He looks up towards the stars, “there is a prophecy, Patroclus, about you and Achilles. It was set in motion when you met, and will continue to move along until your deaths.”

In Chiron’s words, Patroclus hears the echo of Thetis.

“What is it?”

“I am not allowed to say.” Chiron smiles, perhaps noticing the frustration that flashes across his eyes, “I can say this though. Of the creation of Lykos, the reasons are far-stretching and more complex than I have time to say now. Whether it is a curse or not is not for me to say. But in your case, Patroclus, what you are, was bestowed on you by someone wishing to protect Achilles, before he was even born.”

The world fades around Patroclus. The hand on his ankle suddenly feels cold. He remembers the heavy shackles that bound him to Phthia. The boy that binds him still.

“So- so what I am, it really was a curse?”

Chiron’s face is blank, his tone flat.

“It was a decision, nothing more.”

Patroclus thinks about that as he lies beside Achilles later that night. The other boy has wrapped his arm around Patroclus’ waist. His bare stomach is pressed flush against his lower back, and his breath rises and falls in gentle, steady motions. He can feel the warm beat of his heart pulsing against the back of his rib cage. Two hearts, beating as one.

His own eyes refuse to close. They stare outward into the blackness of the cave.

All his life, all seventeen years of it, compressed into hours, a capsule of all his experiences, flash through his mind. Every moment since his birth. His mother, immediately out cast when they discovered what he was. His father, turning from him when he learnt to walk, his first memory, trying to cling to his hand and being beaten to the floor. The servants, turning their heads in fear. The boy, the one who dared talk to him, dead on the rocky plains of Opus. Chains, rotting salt, tightly pressing cells made of thick packed earth and the feeling of a collar against his every breath.

And then Achilles appearing as a light amidst it all. The reason for his suffering.

A decision, that was his life. A decision someone had made, for him. Because, yet again, Achilles’ life was the one that mattered more.


	8. The beach at Troy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mentions of blood, death and gore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, this took more time to write than I expected. Partly because I gave into Disney last night and coughed up twenty quid to watch Raya and the Last Dragon early. 
> 
> Since our boys are now at Troy, we’ve skipped the bit with Iphigenia’s death. In this story, the whole arc on Skyros doesn’t happen because Thetis doesn’t have the same aversion to Troy that she does in canon. Lets just say I’ve been messing up Homer’s prophecies.
> 
> Watch out folks, we have some heavy angst on the way ;)

  
A wind blows cold across the sea. It skims silently over the grey waves, soaking the water in a dead mist. With a baby’s whisper it reaches the coasts of Troy and flutters the flags of the waiting men. As one, they shiver. Somewhere in the gloom, on the furthest flank, a horse whinnies.

The morning grows darker in silence.

The first ship comes with the cry of a trumpet. Against the mists of the horizon, they blur into view.

But no, not one ship. In the distance, the horizon darkens into a long black smudge above the glimmering sea’s surface. Ships, upon hundreds of ships. One soldier grips his spear tighter. Another feels death clutch in his stomach.

So, these are the Greeks.

The second call is not a human one. Not even the familiar cry of a Trojan trumpet. It’s a long, low moan, that stirs the Trojan’s hair and digs down their spines in chilling spikes. A cry that simmers with cold, animalistic rage.

A wolf’s lonely howl on the wind.

The men at the front shuffle back, flicking glances at one another.

They have heard the stories. Of course they have. Not just the stories of the cursed kingdom in Greece. Opi? Opicus? Opus? But of the golden prince Achilles, and his companion the beast, Patroclus.

The general rides his horse along the lines of men, spear raised above his head. He yells at his soldiers for courage. Just this morning they sacrificed fifty lamb at the temple, asking for protection. And besides, is it not Paris their prince, who has favour with the goddess Aphrodite?

“And look where that’s got us.” One man murmurs.

No one has any words to respond to that. They can only stand and watch as the smudge grows darker, clearing through the mist until individual masts can be made out in the gloom, the glint of the hidden sun shining against rows and rows of helmets.

“Ready the arrows!”

The groaning stretch of a thousand bows.

“Spears!”

Metal armour clinks, men mutter into their beards.

And then the lead ship draws into clarity. It’s grander than the rest, set slightly lower in the sea, with a broad sail swollen with wind. The Trojans at the front of the beach see a figure emerge to stand at the bow. A woman, no too tall, too broad: a man with hair that even at this distance burns under the sun. And behind him, a shadow, looming. Pointed ears, the slow swish of a tail, thickly corded legs. A monster.

The men at the front falter back, their spears fall.

The general screams at them, but his horse is whining, falling back as well. The scent of the beast has travelled across the waves, the horse can smell its rage.

And then the ships are nearly upon them, and the Trojans watch as if in slow motion, the man leap onto his beast, swinging himself up onto its monstrous back.

And then the creature is howling again, bounding forward as the Greek lets out his own war cry, so savage it’s freezes the Trojans’ hearts in their chests.

The wolf leaps from the ship’s deck and hits the sand with a dull thud. It shakes its great head, stares down at the men with eyes the colour of fire, and bares its teeth. The man on its back, his face little more than shadow beneath the helmet, grins. Frozen, the Trojans stare back.

And then, at the barest motion from the Greek, the wolf is shooting forward, closing its jaws around the first Trojan with a sickening crunch. The first of many to die at its teeth. Above the screams on the beach, the groan of the rest of the Greek fleet piling onto the beach floods the air.

The Greeks are here, and they have brought hell with them.

* * *

Patroclus doesn’t look at himself when he picks up Achilles’ mirror. It’s made of polished bronze, ornately carved at the edges to represent the seas around Phthia. It’s real metal too, not painted wood. Patroclus thinks how amazed he would have been to even see such craftsmanship a few years ago.

No, that isn’t right. It’s been so longer than that. Seven years? That long? Has it really been that long since he last saw Opus?

He studies the dried skin around his nails as they rest on the edges of the mirror, the pale callouses on his finger joints, the way the skin swells with a scar on his left thumb. Out of the corner of his eye, he knows his face hovers in the reflection. That familiar broad nose, the thick eyebrows. The brown eyes.

He knows that is how it will look. How it should look. But it is not what he will see.

Patroclus remembers the journey to Troy. He remembers the hazy line of the cliffs, darker, rockier than the ones around Phthia. He remembered seeing the flash of the Trojans’ spears and how Achilles moved very slightly beside him to block their view, a semblance of protection. How his fists clenched and unclenched, arms already hidden in the clasp of leather gauntlets.

Patroclus had been in his own armour, only it wasn’t built for that form. For the next few hours, he knew it was the other part of him Achilles wanted. His human form had no use on the battle field. A stretch of beach where all that was wanted was the lust for blood and the skill for killing.

Patroclus, the human part of him, he remembered had been nervous, worried, for Achilles, for himself, for the actions about to be committed under his name.

“I will always follow you.” He had told Achilles, “I will always be at your side.”

The wolf had been snarling inside him, already rearing to go and sink its teeth into flesh and bone. And to kill.

When the time came, and Achilles met his gaze with a grim smile, Patroclus had little choice but to let that rage engulf him.

In some ways, his wolf was more similar to Achilles than himself. He recognised the exhilaration for battle in Achilles’ scent as the hunger fo blood in his wolf.

_“I don’t want to hurt anyone.” Achilles had said, “I don’t want to be a killer_.”

That was the golden haired boy he had known in Phthia, the one who had led him through the mountain groves of Chiron’s home. The one who had stood beside him, and buried his face into his chest after the death of Iphigenia.

But now-

Patroclus doesn’t remember arriving in Troy. He remembers waking up in their tent. His and Achilles’ tent. And staring up at the ceiling, feeling the familiar ache in his muscles and bones as they had stretched and broken to shift his form from the weak clutches of humanity.

His eyes fix on the grime under his nails. It’s a deep red, almost brown. He clutches the mirror tighter. Even now, he hasn’t been able to get all the blood out.

Who does it even belong to? Patroclus will never know. They piled up the bodies of the Trojan soldiers on the hill and burnt their corpses. It’s been a day, and the rancid smell still curls in his nostrils when he tries to sleep. He’s hasn’t let his wolf out the whole time, because he knows how it will enjoy that scent of blood, fear, death.

Yes, his wolf and Achilles are more similar than he thought.

“Patroclus?” He jumps and the mirror slips from his grasp, smacking against the floor. His shoulders jerk again at the sound. He brings up his hands to cover his face.

“Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry, I should have warned you.” Achilles doesn’t say he shouldn’t have had to warn Patroclus, how he usually smells Achilles minutes before he arrives.

Patroclus is getting the feeling there is more and more Achilles is not saying. But he can’t blame him, he’s the same.

_“It was a decision, nothing more.”_

Arms snake around his chest and he feels the sharp press of Achilles’ chin against his shoulder. He leans back into the embrace and rests his cheek against the side of Achilles’ head. He ignores the smell of blood in his hair.

“There will be a banquet held this evening, with the other kings. Do you want to go?” Achilles only has to murmur, their faces are so close. Patroclus feels his breath hot against his ear.

“You should. They will expect you to be there.”

“I don’t want to go where you will not.” Achilles rubs his forehead against Patroclus’ cheek. He knows he’s trying to get Patroclus to look at him, “I do not care what is expected of me.”

Patroclus knows he will not ask him why he doesn’t want to attend. Achilles has learnt to be subtler over the years. The bluntness of his boyhood has softened with age, even if the stubbornness, the pride has remained.

His wolf paces in his chest, eager to be let out. It wants to go, and show the other kings how pathetic they are besides him and Achilles, the best of the Greeks. All the other kings are men past their primes. They are weak, old. Some probably haven’t known the taste of steel in years, known only the touch of gold in their hands, and bronze plates for their food. And what’s more, he knows how they fear him, smells the sharp spike in their scents when he approaches. And the underlying jealousy set in their brows when Achilles brings his hand up to sling an arm around Patroclus’ shoulders. Now they see a use for the cursed boy, they want him too.

_Let us show them what they are missing, show who we belong to._

Patroclus flinches in Achilles arms.

“Patroclus?” He quickly untangles himself, darting away, refusing to look up and see the concern he knows will be written across his companion’s face.

“Patroclus, are you-”

“My prince?” It is a young Myrmidon, peeking into their tent, a hand loosely resting on the sword at his side, “King Agamemnon requests your presence.”

Patroclus looks up in time to see the flash of frustration across Achilles’ face.

“Can’t he wait?”

The soldier presses his lips together anxiously,

“My prince, he did ask for you to come as soon as possible. He was quite insistent.”

Achilles hisses. “Alright, I will come now or the pig will be squealing all night.” He pinned Patroclus with a gaze that verged on desperation, “will you be alright?”

A bitter retort rose in Patroclus’ chest. He pushed it down.

“Of course, I will go for a walk along the cliffs.” He tried to soften his face into a smile, “you don’t need to worry for me, Achilles.”

Achilles doesn’t look any less appeased, but he nods tightly, quickly brushing his hair back before following the Myrmidon out of the tent.

Patroclus waits until the soft pad of his feet have dissolved under the sounds of the rest of the camp before he ducks out as well. His wolf wills him to pause as he turns towards the cliffs, and tries to scent out Achilles’ smell. The sweet saltiness of his companion against the heavy musk that has settled over the whole of the Phthian camp. It only takes him a moment to pin it down. He nearly hates himself for it.

He hadn’t lied when he told Achilles he would go for a walk along the cliffs. The weight of the last day has begun to press down on him. The smells, the noise, the blood. With his Lykos senses, all of these are emphasised, and after so many years of it being just him, Achilles and Chiron on an isolated mountain, he has been finding it harder and harder to cope. The arduous journey by ship to Troy had been bad enough, but it seems the overload on his senses isn’t going to be going away soon.

Leaving the camp is relatively easy. The Myrmidons respect and fear him in equal measures enough to not approach him as he slips between the construction work going on. The tent he and Achilles are staying in is only temporary. It will soon be replaced with a wooden hut. It is obvious the Greek army is settling in for a long war.

All for one woman? Patroclus cannot help but feel this is more than a war about returning Helen to Greece.

A winding path at the base of the cliffs takes him up from the beach. He has gone barefoot, and the light scratch of dry earth under his feet grounds him. It has been so long since he used his human body for so much movement. His wolf is stronger, bigger, faster. In that form, he could reach the cliff top in minutes. The burn in his muscles sends a light thrill up his spine as Patroclus uses his arms to pull himself up the final stretch, grappling against the rock with his feet. A gull is carried on the air behind him and Patroclus feels a grin stretch his face at the light brush of air from its wing.

Why did it have to be a wolf? Why a Lykos? Wolves were good for nothing but hurting, hunting and killing. Why couldn’t he be a bird and fly from here, stretch out his wings against the sky and be free.

Patroclus gives one final push of his muscles and rolls onto the soft earth of the cliff top. Rough grass digs into his neck, pricking his skin. He takes a big, heaving breath, letting the smell of dry earth and salt fill his lungs. His eyes stare, unfocused into the blue sky above him and he briefly imagines himself as the last human in the land, alone with only the sky and the cup of the earth below him.

_You’re not a human._

His blunt nails dig into the ground.

_You’re a weapon._

He imagines the nails as sharper, hardening into claws. The earth morphs into the soft flesh of muscle, pulsing hot red under his paws.

Two days ago, he knew he had killed only two people in his life. Of both of them, he knew their faces, faces his mind forced him to see in his dreams. He had promised himself he wouldn’t forget them, and forget what he had taken from them.

Now though, he had no idea. He couldn’t even remember taking those lives yesterday, he didn’t want to. And he knew, if he went into Troy, or even the quarters of the Myrmidons, the kitchens, the women’s huts, they would be whispering about him. Achilles’ monster.

He throws an arm across his eyes, blocking out the glaring light of the sun. Against the warm press of his skin, he feels his eyes dampen with tears.

Achilles is doing his very best not to fall asleep.

Agamemnon’s ‘very urgent meeting’ had turned out to be more of a pre-banquet event to show off his wealth the other kings. At the banquet later on this evening, the Greek army will sacrifice one hundred of the livestock brought all the way over from Greece, and humbly beg for protection from the gods. Right now, Achilles thought, as he glowered across the room at Agamemnon, sprawled on a grandly carved chair, it felt like he and the other leaders were expected to sacrifice their own power in return for Agamemnon’s pathetic favour.

This isn’t the reason he should have left Patroclus.

That’s not to say Achilles is not perfectly aware Patroclus can take care of himself. In every sense, including self-defence, he and Patroclus are equals. But he has grown up beside Patroclus, he is Philtatos, most beloved of his heart, his dearest companion. And he worries for him. That look he carried in his eyes before they parted wasn’t new. The past few months especially, ever since...

There is no point making assumptions, he will talk to Patroclus if there is something troubling him. If he is unwilling to say anything, at least Achilles can make it clear he is there for him. He isn’t the best at listening, but he has been willing to learn for Patroclus.

Which is why it would be excellent if this contest of flattery for Agamemnon could end, so Achilles can leave to find his love. If Achilles only had his own reputation to consider, he would have been long gone. Unfortunately, his presence represents the whole of Phthia.

He itches in his seat. He wants to be out on the battle field, his spear warm in his hand, Patroclus beside him. He wants to be fighting, winning this war so they can go home.

“My prince, Achilles!”

It’s a man at Achilles’ elbow, the lord of some distant city who has been trying to get his attention for some time. Obviously now the man has had enough alcohol to lower his inhibitions, and he leans closer, nearly falling off his cushion as he drapes an arm around Achilles’ shoulders. Achilles considers the implications for his father if he slices the man’s hand off.

“Young Achilles, I mean my prince, of course, of course,” the man is slurring, his eyes barely focused on Achilles’ face. Thick wine has stained the bristle around his lips, “by the gods I am surprised to see you here,” he laughs, the sounds broken by hiccups, “well, alone, of course.”

Achilles furrows his brows, trying to disentangle a meaning from the man’s words.

“It is the duty of Phthia to help serve in the Greek army. My father is too old to have come himself.”

“Yes, yes lad, of course you are here. But duty can be damned to the gods, we all know why we’ve really come.” He directs a smirk at the cluster of women serving wine further up the table. The first of the war prizes, taken only yesterday from a small settlement beyond the beach. Even as the man speaks, Agamemnon presses his hand against the back of one young girl, his lips pulled back in a grin. From here, Achilles notices how her fingers tremble against the jug of wine. The women who tried resistance have already been made examples of to the survivors.

“Though, maybe you already have everything you need.”

Again, it takes a moment for Achilles to figure out what the man is saying.

“What- I don’t-” he is about to say he has taken none of the girls for himself, when he sees how the man’s eyebrows have raised, the smirk deepening to a lecherous grin.

_Everything you need._

“Every man has his tastes, I have no room to judge, but how do you do it? Human? Wolf form? It must be difficult, I’ve heard that Lykos have to wear collars, to keep them under control.”

Achilles shoots to his feet, his hand already at his side. His fingers grip at empty air. Of course he had left his sword back at the tent, Agamemnon didn’t allow other Greeks to bring weapons onto his camp.

Perhaps it was a good thing, because he could have killed the man on the spot.

“I’ve heard the Ithacans have good methods for controlling their Lykos, maybe you should talk to Odysseus, he might be... into, the same things as you.” The man won’t shut up now he has started. Ignoring the expression on Achilles’ face, which has already sent a couple of the serving girls running to the other side of the table, he tips back the rest of the win in his goblet, wiping the excess from his beard with a thick arm.

“You are young, maybe I could give you a little advice myself, for a price...” Achilles punches the grin off the man’s face. He collapses, boneless to the ground with a crunch, the pain from his broken nose hitting the ground knocking him out immediately. Achilles stares at his bloodied fist, wishing he hadn’t punched him so hard so he could have done it again, and again, and-

He pushes past the nearest men, who had crowded about to watch the scene, and storms out of the tent.

Speculating about his relationship, personal relationship with Patroclus was one thing, but to talk about him, as if he was little more than a pet, a toy for Achilles’ needs...

His hands curl into fists at his sides. He doesn’t care what others think about him. He doesn’t care what others think, full stop. Nobody, apart from his love, Patroclus, has that privilege. And therefore, it is because he cares about what Patroclus thinks, that he knows he would be upset to hear people thinking that about him, them. Their relationship.

Is this why Patroclus has been pulling away from him recently? Skittish, nervous, spending more and more time in his wolf form, as if that can protect him from people’s scathing gossip.

Achilles rubs his hands against his thighs, a habit he has picked up from Patroclus. Only Patroclus does it when he’s nervous. Achilles is angry. He stalks towards the Phthian camp, trying to dispel some of the rising energy in his chest.

So when he hears a vaguely familiar voice call out his name, Achilles has too bite down on his teeth to stop himself from snapping.

It’s Odysseus. With the exception of that lord in the tent, the King of Ithaca is probably the last person Achilles wants to talk to right now.

Still, he waits for the king to catch up, sucking air through his teeth to try and ignore the white hot rage flowing under his skin.

“Prince Achilles.” He nods, not trusting himself to respond, “you will have to forgive these men. When King Agamemnon’s wine, so strong is it, gets to their heads, there is very little they think off besides harmless gossip.”

“Harmless.” Achilles bares his teeth, “since when has the pride of a man been considered so worthless.”

“My prince, you cannot expect that man to have meant his words, of course all of us here understand, and respect Phthia even, for taking that Lykos in. You know how experienced I am with the creatures, controlling them is not easy.”

Achilles twists his fingers behind his back and doesn’t respond. Unlike the minor Lord, Odysseus is a king, close to Agamemnon. He will not be helping Patroclus by antagonising their case.

“But since I am so experienced with Lykos, I should let you know, back in Ithaca, my Lykos have started to go missing. There are rumours circulating amongst the people, of men coming and stealing them away. Or leaving in the night, killing their masters.” Odysseus is tall, but Achilles has grown during his time with Chiron. He stares straight into his eyes, “if I were you, I would keep an eye on your Lykos, Prince Achilles. Keep him close, if you want him to remain at your side.”

“My thanks, King Odysseus, but Patroclus does not stay beside me by force, or chains, or collars. If he wanted to leave, then I would not stop him.”

Odysseus shrugs, absorbing Achilles’ comment like a ripple on a calm sea.

“You may do what you like, Prince, but I am not sure even your Lykos will have much choice in whether he stays or leaves.”

His words send a chill down Achilles spine, which lingers even as he crosses the boundary into the Phthian camp.

The return from Chiron’s had given them little time before he and Patroclus were hurried onto the ships for Troy. Their years on the mountain had seemed like a dream, and like a dream it has been difficult to drag themselves back into the reality of day to day life. Achilles knew from snippets of conversations with his father that something was at play here, bigger than getting Helen back. But was that something to do with Lykos? To do with Patroclus?

The chill only grew when he pushes into their tent to find Patroclus gone. He had said he would go for a walk, but that was hours ago surely? Achilles looks up to watch the motion of the sun. It has sunk deep in the sky from midday when they last talked. A pale pink light spills across the camp and a soft wind brings with it the call of the sea. The scent of salt and brine. His mother calls.

He clenches and unclenches his fist, nails finding the familiar crescents in his palms that have been burrowed in over the day. He cannot ignore her.

_Patroclus, where are you?_

_Patroclus._

Patroclus jumps at the voice.

“Achilles?” He scrambles to his feet, looking around him.

He’s alone. To his right, the cliff drops off down to the camp below. To his left, the grassy top of the cliff stretches off into low mountains, sharp, purple streaks against the horizon. With his wolf vision, he can see a glimpse of Troy too, nestled behind its high walls.

He looks around him again. No sight of Achilles. And the sun has dipped lower in the sky than when he last opened his eyes. He must have fallen asleep. He rubs at his legs. The skin feels icy under his palms.

“We’ve been looking for you.”

Patroclus smells it in their scent before he turns to look at the speaker.

A woman. She’s tall, with dark hair greying at her scalp. She stands to his left, the sun lying gold on half her face, casting deep pools into her eyes.

Patroclus’ nose wrinkles, his teeth pulling back as his wolf snarls inside him.

She barely reacts, narrowing the golden eyes that mirror his own.

“That’s hardly a way to greet one of your own, Patroclus.”   
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg, who could it be?? Or more specifically, what could it be?

**Author's Note:**

> I’m a few chapters ahead at the moment so updates should be fairly frequent (especially since my country is now in another lockdown). I hope you are enjoying the story thus far, and thanks for reading!


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